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diff --git a/4634-h/4634-h.htm b/4634-h/4634-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1c73fe --- /dev/null +++ b/4634-h/4634-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7513 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Uncle William, by Jennette Lee + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Uncle William + The Man Who Was Shif'less + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #4634] +Last Updated: February 20, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE WILLIAM *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + UNCLE WILLIAM + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE MAN WHO WAS SHIF’LESS <br /> <br /> By Jennette Lee + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO GERALD STANLEY LEE + + “Let him sing to me + Who sees the watching of the stars above the day, + Who hears the singing of the sunrise + On its way + Through all the night. + +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let him sing to me + Who is the sky-voice, the thunder-lover, + Who hears above the winds’ fast flying shrouds + The drifted darkness, the heavenly strife, + The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds + Of his own life.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>UNCLE WILLIAM</b></big> </a><br /> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + UNCLE WILLIAM + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + “Yes, I’m shif’less. I’m gen’ally considered + shif’less,” said William Benslow. He spoke in a tone of + satisfaction, and hitched his trousers skilfully into place by their one + suspender. + </p> + <p> + His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor at + the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he + failed to find in his color-box. + </p> + <p> + William Benslow watched him patiently. “Kind o’ ticklish + business, ain’t it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + The artist admitted that it was. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I wouldn’t ever ’a’ done for a painter,” + said the old man, readjusting his legs. “It’s settin’-work, + and that’s good; but you have to keep at it steady-like—keep + a-daubin’ and a-scrapin’ and a-daubin’ and a-scrapin’, + day in and day out. I shouldn’t like it. Sailin’ ’s more + in my line,” he added, scanning the horizon. “You have to step + lively when you do step, but there’s plenty of off times when you + can set and look and the boat just goes skimmin’ along all o’ + herself, with the water and the sky all round you. I’ve been + thankful a good many times the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me.” + </p> + <p> + The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on the + cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon sail, + anchored below. “There’s not much money in it?” he + suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Money? Dunno’s there is,” returned the other. “You + don’t reely need money if you’re a sailor.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not—no more than an artist.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you need money, either?” The old man spoke with + cordial interest. + </p> + <p> + “Well, occasionally—not much. I have to buy canvas now and + then, and colors—” + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I + dye mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk—” + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out. “All right, Uncle William, all right,” + he said. “You teach me to trust in the Lord and I’ll teach you + art. You see that color out there,—deep green like shadowed grass—” + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “I’ve seen that a good many times,” + he said. “Cur’us, ain’t it?—just the color of + lobsters when you haul ’em.” + </p> + <p> + The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. “Hum-m!” + he said under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh + color rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas. + “Ah-h!” he said, again under his breath. It held a note of + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the sand. + He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising and + falling across the bay. “Putty good,” he said approvingly. + “You’ve got it just about the way it looks—” + </p> + <p> + “Just about,” assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. + “Just about. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “Cur’us, ain’t it? there’s a + lot in the way you see a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “There certainly is,” said the painter. His brush moved in + swift strokes across the canvas. “There certainly is. I’ve + been studying that water for two hours. I never thought of lobsters.” + He laughed happily. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. “That’s nateral + enough,” he said kindly. “You hain’t been seein’ + it every day for sixty year, the way I hev.” He looked at it again, + lovingly, from his height. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good of being an artist if I can’t see + things that you can’t?” demanded the young man, swinging about + on his stool. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what <i>is</i> the use? I dunno; do you?” said Uncle + William, genially. “I’ve thought about that a good many times, + too, when I’ve been sailin’,” he went on—“how + them artists come up here summer after summer makin’ picters,—putty + poor, most on ’em,—and what’s the use? I can see better + ones settin’ out there in my boat, any day.—Not but that’s + better’n some,” he added politely, indicating the + half-finished canvas. + </p> + <p> + The young man laughed. “Thanks to you,” he said. “Come + on in and make a chowder. It’s too late to do any more to-day—and + that’s enough.” He glanced with satisfaction at the glowing + canvas with its touch of green. He set it carefully to one side and + gathered up his tubes and brushes. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it apart + and folding it with quick skill. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. “All right,” he + said, “go ahead.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist + drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said. “You’d + rub it off.” + </p> + <p> + “Like enough,” returned the old man, placidly. “I gen’ally + do get in a muss when there’s fresh paint around. But I don’t + mind my clothes. They’re ust to it—same as yourn.” + </p> + <p> + The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn’t risk it,” + he said. “Come on.” + </p> + <p> + They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with bent + backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on its + edge. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right + along in,” he said. “I’ll be there ’s soon as I’ve + got an armful of wood.” + </p> + <p> + The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows and + decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire and + covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a sudden + sense of crude comfort. + </p> + <p> + The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked about + him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and came + across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently. + </p> + <p> + She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately step, + she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious gaze. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Juno,” he said. “He’ll be along in a + minute. Don’t you worry.” + </p> + <p> + She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her face + gravely and slowly. + </p> + <p> + The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon the big + leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of welcome. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes. He + reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear of + his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction, she + settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness. + </p> + <p> + He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze swept + the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and poked + together the few coals that glowed beneath. “That’s all right,” + he said. “She’ll heat up quick.” He thrust in some light + sticks and pushed forward the kettle. “Now, if you’ll reach + into that box behind you and get the potatoes,” he said, “I’ll + do the rest of the fixin’s.” + </p> + <p> + He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red and + black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from behind + the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to his blue + eyes with a little frown. “They’re a terrible bother,” + he said, squinting through them and readjusting them. “But I don’t + dare resk it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it + was the salt—same shape. The chowder <i>was</i> hot.” He + chuckled. “I can see a boat a mile off,” he said, lifting the + basket of clams to the sink, “but a pepper-box two feet’s + beyond me.” He stood at the sink, rubbing the clams with slow, + thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the window, was not + unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far as the eye could + see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining baldness and tufts + of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the vast expanse of + neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat. + </p> + <p> + Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered with a + kind of slow patience,—in a smaller man it would have been + fussiness,—and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out + with careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite + of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the + window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. “Time to set + my light,” he said. He lighted a ship’s lantern and placed it + carefully in the window. + </p> + <p> + The artist watched him with amused eyes. “You waste a lot of oil on + the government, Uncle William,” he said laughingly. “Why don’t + you apply for a salary?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William smiled genially. “Well, I s’pose the guvernment + would say the’ wa’n’t any reel need for a light here. + And I don’t s’pose the’ is, <i>myself</i>—not any + <i>reel</i> need. But it’s a comfort. The boys like to see it, comin’ + in at night. They’ve sailed by it a good many year now, and I reckon + they’d miss it. It’s cur’us how you do miss a thing that’s + a comfort—more’n you do one ’t you reely <i>need</i> + sometimes.” He lighted the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam + above, and surveyed the table. He drew up his chair. “Well, it’s + ready,” he said, “such as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all airs, Uncle William,” said the young man, + drawing up. “You know it’s fit for a king.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s good,” said the old man, beaming on him. + “I’ve thought a good many times there wa’n’t + anything in the world that tasted better than chowder—real good clam + chowder.” His mouth opened to take in a spoonful, and his ponderous + jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross in the action, but it might + have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big spectacles up on his head for + comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge from tuft to tuft, framing the + ruddy face. + </p> + <p> + “There was a man up here to Arichat one summer,” he said, + chewing slowly, “that e’t my chowder. And he was sort o’ + possessed to have me go back home with him.” + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled. “Just to make chowder for him?” + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “Sounds cur’us, don’t it? But that + was what he wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o’ got the + idea that if he could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for + the hotel. He offered me a good deal o’ money if I’d go with + him—said he’d give me five hunderd a year and keep.” The + old man chuckled. “I told him I wouldn’t go for a thousand—not + for two thousand,” he said emphatically. “Why, I don’t s’pose + there’s money enough in New York to tempt me to live there. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ve been there a good many times. We’ve put in + for repairs and one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years + between there and Liverpool once. It’s a terrible shet-in place,” + he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you’re right,” admitted the young man. He had + lighted his pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. “You <i>do</i> + feel shut in—sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I meant,” he said, quickly. “I can’t + stan’ so many folks.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not much crowded here.” The young man lifted his + head. Down below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It + rushed against the little house whirlingly. + </p> + <p> + The old man listened a minute. “I shall have to go down and reef her + down,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s goin’ to blow.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say it <i>is</i> blowing,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” returned Uncle William. “You’ll hear it + blow afore mornin’ if you stay awake to listen—though it won’t + sound so loud up the shore where you be. This is the place for it. A good + stiff blow and nobody on either side of you—for half a mile.” + A kind of mellow enthusiasm held the tone. + </p> + <p> + The young man smiled. “You <i>are</i> a hermit. Suppose somebody + should build next you?” + </p> + <p> + “They can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I own it.” + </p> + <p> + “A mile?” + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “Not the shore, of course. That’s free to + all. But where anybody could build I own.” He said it almost + exultantly. “I guess maybe I’m part Indian.” He smiled + apologetically. “I can’t seem to breathe without I have room + enough, and it just come over me once, how I should feel if folks crowded + down on me too much. So I bought it. I’m what they call around here + ’land-poor.’” He said it with satisfaction. “I can’t + scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it’s ’s + much as I can do to keep the <i>Jennie</i> patched up and going. But I’m + comfortable. I don’t really want for anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’re comfortable.” The young man glanced about + the snug room. + </p> + <p> + “There ain’t a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me.” + He got up with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I’m + goin’ to make things snug and put down the other anchor,” he + said. “You stay till I come back and we’ll have suthin’ + hot.” + </p> + <p> + He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its hook, + went out into the night. + </p> + <p> + Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It glowed. + The cat purred in its depths. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The face + within it was dark, like a boy’s, with careless hair brushed from + the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and the + soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been leaning + back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and spare, with the + rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind. . . . How she would + enjoy it—this very night—the red room perched aloft in the + gale! + </p> + <p> + A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted + itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With a + snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on Uncle + William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out. His hat + and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the fire, shaking + it off. + </p> + <p> + “It’s goin’ to blow all right,” he said, nodding + to the artist. + </p> + <p> + “And it’s raining. You’re wet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not <i>wet</i>, so to speak.” He took off his hat, + shaking it lightly over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the + hot drops. Juno lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man + hung his hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated + himself by the stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. + The artist leaned forward, holding out his hands to it. + </p> + <p> + “You were gone a good while,” he said. The locket had slipped + from his fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as + he bent to the fire. + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “I see the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> had dragged + her anchor a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took + quite a spell. I couldn’t find the extry anchor. He’d got it + stowed away for’ard somewheres, and by the time I found it she was + driftin’ putty bad. I found a good bottom for her and made things + fast before I left. I reckon she’ll hold.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t he be down himself to look after her?” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe not. It’s a goodish step, from his place, down and + back. He knows I keep an eye out for her. + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t he anchor up there,” said the artist, + “near by?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “He’s a kind o’ set man, + Andy is—part Irish and part Scotch. He al’ays <i>has</i> + anchored here and I reckon he al’ays <i>will</i>. I told him when I + bought the land of him he was welcome to.” + </p> + <p> + “It was his land, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Most on it—I do’ know as he <i>wanted</i> to sell + reely, but I offered him more’n he could stan’. He’s a + little near—Andy is.” He chuckled. + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out. “So he keeps the anchorage and right of way + and you look after his boat. I don’t see but he’s fairly well + fixed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s putty well fixed,” said the old man, slowly. + “‘S fur as <i>this</i> world’s goods go Andy is comf’tably + provided for.” His eyes twinkled a little, but most of the big face + was sober. “We’ve been neighbors, Andy ’n’ me, + ever sence we was boys,” he said. “I guess there ain’t a + mean thing about Andy that I don’t know, and he the same about me. I + should feel kind o’ lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look + after—and know, like as not, in the mornin’ he’ll come + down, cussin’ and swearin’ ’cause she wa’n’t + fixed jest right.” He peered into the kettle on the stove. “‘Most + empty.” He filled it from the pail by the sink, and resumed his + seat, stretching his great legs comfortably. Juno sprang from the lounge + and perched herself on his knee. He tumbled her a little, in rough + affection, and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She purred loudly, + kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth. He watched her + benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. “Wimmen folks is a + good deal alike,” he remarked dryly. “They like to be comf’tabul.” + </p> + <p> + “Some of them,” assented the artist. + </p> + <p> + The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. “So-o?” he said. + </p> + <p> + The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand + touched it. “What do you mean?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why, nuthin’, nuthin’,” said Uncle William, + soothingly. “Only I thought you was occupied with art and so on—“? + </p> + <p> + “I am.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Presently the artist leaned forward. “Do you want to see her?” + he said. He was holding it out. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the + spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he + reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone + from his face. It was full of gentleness. + </p> + <p> + Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand. + </p> + <p> + The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The old + man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to hum. Its + gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied + look. “You’ve had a good deal more sense’n I was afraid + you’d have,” he said dryly. + </p> + <p> + The artist woke. “You can’t tell—from that.” He + held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William gave it up, slowly. “I can tell more’n you’d + think, perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike—some ways a good deal + alike. I’ve lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I’ve + watched all kinds of doings. But what I’m surest of is that it’s + deeper’n we be.” He chuckled softly. “Now, I wouldn’t + pertend to know all about her,”—he waved his hand,—“but + she’s big and she’s fresh—salt, too—and she makes + your heart big just to look at her—the way it ought to, I reckon. + There’s things about her I don’t know,” he nodded toward + the picture. “She may not go to church and I don’t doubt but + what she has tantrums, but she’s better’n we be, and she—What + did you say her name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Sergia Lvova.” + </p> + <p> + “Sergia Lvova,” repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a + certain ease. “That’s a cur’us name. I’ve heard + suthin’ like it, somewhere—” + </p> + <p> + “She’s Russian.” + </p> + <p> + “Russian—jest so! I might’n’ known it! I touched + Russia once, ran up to St. Petersburg. Now there’s a country that + don’t hev breathin’ space. She don’t hev half the sea + room she’d o’t to. Look at her—all hemmed in and froze + up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to get to her—half + choked afore you fairly get there. Yes, I sailed there once, up through + Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland, just + edging along—” He held out his hand again for the locket, and + studied it carefully. “Russian, is she? I might ’a’ + known it,” he said nodding. “She’s the sort—same + look—eager and kind o’ waitin’.” He looked up. + “How’d you come to know her? You been there?” + </p> + <p> + “In Russia? No. She’s not there now. She’s in New York. + She lives there.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so? Poor thing!” Uncle William looked at the pictured + face with compassion. + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled. “Oh, it’s not so bad. She’s happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she’s happy. I can see that easy enough. She’s the + kind that’s goin’ to be happy.” He looked again at the + clear, fearless eyes. “You couldn’t put her anywheres she + wouldn’t sing—” + </p> + <p> + “She <i>does</i> sing. How did you know?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eyes twinkled to the boyish face. “Well, I + didn’t <i>know</i> it—not jest that way. I didn’t know + as she sung songs on a platform, dressed up, like I’ve heard ’em. + What I meant was, her heart kind o’ bubbles and sings—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes”—the artist leaned forward—“that is + Sergia. It’s the way she is. She doesn’t sing in public. But + her voice”—his eyes grew dark—“it makes you want + to laugh and cry. It’s like the wind and the sun shining—” + He broke off, listening. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s eyes dwelt on him kindly. “She’s with her + folks, is she?” + </p> + <p> + He roused himself. “She hasn’t any. They all died over there—her + father and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no one. + She teaches music—piano and violin—night and day. Sometimes + she gives a recital with her pupils—and she has me.” He + laughed a little bitterly. “It isn’t an exciting life.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno’s I’d say jest that,” said Uncle William, + slowly. “It ain’t exactly the things that happen—” + He broke off, looking at something far away. “Why, I’ve had + things happen to me—shipwreck, you know—winds a-blowin’ + and sousin’ the deck—and a-gettin’ out the boats and + yellin’ and shoutin’—Seems ’s if it ought to + ’a’ been excitin’. But Lord! ’twa’n’t + nuthin’ to what I’ve felt other times—times when it was + all still-like on the island here—and big—so’s ’t + you kind o’ hear suthin’ comin’ to ye over the water. + Why, some days it’s been so’s I’d feel’s if I’d + <i>bust</i> if I didn’t do suthin’—suthin’ to let + off steam.” + </p> + <p> + The young man nodded. “You ought to be an artist. That’s the + way they feel—some of them.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William beamed on him. “You don’t say so! Must be kind o’ + hard work, settin’ still and doin’ art when you feel like + that. I gen’ally go clammin’, or suthin’.” + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the locket. + </p> + <p> + But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. “Things + happen to <i>her</i>—every day,” he said. “You can see + that, plain enough. She don’t hev to be most drowned to hev feelin’s.” + He looked up. “When you goin’ to be married?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till we can afford it—years.” The tone was somber. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “Now, I wouldn’t talk like that, + Mr. Woodworth!” He handed back the locket and pushed up his + spectacles again, beaming beneath them. “Seems to me,” he said + slowly, studying the fire—“seems to me I wouldn’t wait. + I’d be married right off—soon’s I got back.” + </p> + <p> + “What would you live on?” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William waited. “There’s resk,” he said at last—“there’s + resk in it. But there’s resk in ’most everything that tastes + good. I meant to get married once,” he said after a pause. “I + didn’t. I guess it’s about the wust mistake I ever made. I + thought this house wa’n’t good enough for her.” He + looked about the quaint room. “‘T wa’n’t, neither,” + he added with conviction. “But she’d ’a’ rather + come—I didn’t know it then,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them. + </p> + <p> + “If I’d ’a’ married her, I’d ’a’ + seen things sooner,” went on the old man. “I didn’t see + much beauty them days—on sea or land. I was all for a good ketch and + makin’ money and gettin’ a better boat. And about that time + she died. I begun to learn things then—slow-like—when I hadn’t + the heart to work. If I’d married Jennie, I’d ’a’ + seen ’em sooner, bein’ happy. You learn jest about the same + bein’ happy as you do bein’ miserable—only you learn it + quicker.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t give up my art,” said the young man. He was + looking at Uncle William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty + yet kind. “You don’t allow for art,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno’s I do,” returned Uncle William. “It’s + like makin’ money, I guess—suthin’ extry, thrown in, + good enough if you get it, but not necessary—no, not necessary. + Livin’s the thing to live for, I reckon.” He stopped suddenly, + as if there were no more to be said. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked at him curiously. “That’s what all the great + artists have said,” he commented. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “Like enough. I ain’t an artist. But I’ve + had sixty year of livin’, off and on.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’ll die poor,” said the artist, with a glance + about the little room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was—with + his curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways. + “You’ll die poor if you don’t look out,” he said + again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I s’pose I shall,” said Uncle William, placidly, + “‘thout I make my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to + me just about right.” He eyed the tea-kettle critically. “You + hand over them glasses and we’ll mix a little suthin’ hot, and + then we’ll wash the dishes and go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked up with a start. “I must be getting back.” + He glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t get back anywheres to-night,” said Uncle + William. “You couldn’t hear yourself think out there—let + alone findin’ the path. I’ll jest shake up a bed for ye here + on the lounge,—it’s a fust-rate bed; I’ve slep’ on + it myself, time and again,—and then in the mornin’ you’ll + be on hand to go to work—save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest + glass and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there—second one—and + a teaspoon. We’ll have things fixed up fust-rate here.” + </p> + <p> + Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the fire + darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the wind + struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow. + </p> + <p> + Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat + through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked + mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying + missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and thudded + to the ground with heavier crash. + </p> + <p> + About three o’clock Uncle William’s round face was thrust + through the crack of the door. “You can go to sleep all right, now,” + he said soothingly. “There wa’n’t but seven bricks left + in the chimney, anyhow, and the last one’s jest come down. I counted + ’em fallin’.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated + on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the + artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. Then + he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling + their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer was + almost done. For weeks—since the night of the big storm—he had + worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,—“The + light that never was on sea or land,” he called it,—and he had + worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William + saw them. Through his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and + bigness—simplicity. “They will call it my third style,” + said the artist, smiling, as he worked. “They ought to call it the + Uncle William style. I didn’t do it—I shall never do it again,” + and he worked fast. + </p> + <p> + But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. + To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he + would like to remember. + </p> + <p> + He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” + he said, nodding toward the red pile. + </p> + <p> + The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything’s steady—that + pays,” he said indifferently. + </p> + <p> + The artist’s eyebrows lifted a little. “So?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can’t + earn money stan’in’ with your hands in your pockets.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess that’s so,” said the artist, cheerfully. He did + not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and + jingled them merrily. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Willum,” said the man, aggressively, sweeping + his red knife toward the cliff. “He’s poor—poor as + poverty—an’ he al’ays will be.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone + held respectful interest. + </p> + <p> + The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin’.” + </p> + <p> + The artist nodded. “I’m afraid he is.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ then he’s al’ays a-givin’—a + little here and a little there. Why, what Willum Benslow’s give away + would ’a’ made a rich man of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep. I don’t s’pose I know half he’s give. But it’s + a heap, Lord knows! And then he’s foolish—plumb foolish.” + He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. “How much d’you + s’pose he give me for that land—from here to my house?” + He pointed up the coast. + </p> + <p> + The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It glowed—a + riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky. “I + haven’t the least idea,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you won’t believe it when I tell you;—nobody’d + believe it. He paid me five hunderd dollars for it—five hunderd! It + ain’t wuth fifty.” + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled at him genially. “Well—he’s satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “But it ain’t right,” said the man, gloomily. He had + returned to his fish. “It ain’t right. I can’t bear to + have Willum such a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll go for a sail,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + The other glanced at the horizon. “It’s going to storm,” + he said indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll keep an eye out.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye better not go.” + </p> + <p> + “Think not?” He looked again at the harbor. “It’s + my last chance for a sail—I’ll watch out.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. ’T ain’t my business,” said the man. + He went on slitting fish. + </p> + <p> + The harbor held a still light—ominously—grey with a tinge of + yellow in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a + telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept + the bay with it. The grey stillness deepened. + </p> + <p> + On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle + William approached he grunted stiffly. “She’s off the island,” + he said. He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat + hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself. + </p> + <p> + The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to + one side. “Fool to go out—I told him it was coming.” + </p> + <p> + The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. “I o’t + to ’a’ kept an eye on him,” he said humbly. “I + didn’t jest sense he was goin’. I guess mebbe he did mention + it. But I was mixin’ a batch of biscuit and kind o’ thinkin’ + to myself. When I looked up he wa’n’t there.” He slid + the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll + hev to go after him,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The other looked up quickly. “How’ll you go?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor. + “I’ll take <i>her</i>,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The man laughed shortly. “The <i>Andrew Halloran</i>? I guess not!” + He shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. “I don’t + trust her—not in such a storm as that’s going to be.” He + waved his arm toward the harbor. The greyness was shifting rapidly. It + moved in swift green touches, heavy and clear—a kind of luminous + dread. In its sallow light the man’s face stood out tragically. + “I won’t resk her,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll hev to, Andrew.” Uncle William bent to the bow + of the dory that was beached near by. “Jump in,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his + side. “Don’t you make me go, William,” he said + pacifically. “You can take the boat in welcome, but don’t take + <i>me</i>. It’s too much resk!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s al’ays a resk to do your duty,” said Uncle + William. “Jump in. I can’t stand talkin’.” An edge + of impatience grazed the words. + </p> + <p> + The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I’ll help get her + off,” he said, “but I won’t go.” + </p> + <p> + In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William’s + face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I + guess you’ll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn’t + want a man drowned right at your door-yard.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face + to the light. Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It’ll + strike in five minutes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Like enough,” said Uncle William—“like enough. + Easy there!” He seized the stern of the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> and + sprang on board. They worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, + letting out the sail,—a single reef,—making it fast. “All + she’ll stan’,” said Uncle William. He turned to the + helm. + </p> + <p> + Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she’s + going out, I take her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said + Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with + cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The + boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the murky + light as if drawn by unseen hands. + </p> + <p> + The light thickened and grew black—clouded and dense and swift. + Then, with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in + sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in—blinded them, crushed + them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer—hugging + the wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate + beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a + gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle William + bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight, Andy,” he + yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to + it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull, + were mere lines. “Hold her tight! Make fast!” he yelled again. + </p> + <p> + Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened to + ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all about + them—underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave, + dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of the + boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone. With + a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling behind + it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam. + </p> + <p> + Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle, + breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east. + Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping + off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice. “Let + her out, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef and + loosing it to the wind. + </p> + <p> + The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past. + But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, + monstrous and black. + </p> + <p> + With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. “We’ll + make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it yet if + the <i>Jennie</i> holds out—” Suddenly he stood upright, his + hand on the tiller, his eyes glued fast. + </p> + <p> + “Luff her,” he cried. “She’s gone—Luff her, + I tell you!” He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let + her out, Andy, every inch!” + </p> + <p> + The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. + She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the race. + </p> + <p> + Across the water something bobbed—black, uncertain. + </p> + <p> + “Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase + was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk, in that + center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. “Yep,” + he said solemnly, “he’s held on—he’s there!” + </p> + <p> + “Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don’t lose her.” Uncle + William’s big arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in + her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that + opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, + hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke. + </p> + <p> + The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he + looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man’s + head, round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above + him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon—thick and nebulous + and dizzy. + </p> + <p> + “Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him + over. He’s shipped too much.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine deftly + in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke + that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the + horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work. + </p> + <p> + Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. + He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he glanced at + the line of smoke. “<i>He’s</i> gone,” he said, jerking + his thumb toward it. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone,” assented Uncle William, cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, + spreading it along the beach. “He’s left <i>you</i> poorer’n + he found you,” he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the + nets, untying knots and straightening meshes. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno ’bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes + followed the whiff of smoke kindly. + </p> + <p> + “You kep’ him a good deal, off and on. He must ’a’ + e’t considerable,” said Andrew. “And now he’s up + and lost your boat for you.” He glanced complacently at the <i>Andrew + Halloran</i> swinging at anchor. “You’ll never see <i>her</i> + again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe not,” said Uncle William. “Mebbe not.” His + eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The + blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William’s + eyes returned to his nets. + </p> + <p> + “How you going to get along ’bout a bout?” asked Andrew, + carelessly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn’t + need her much more this fall, anyways,” he said. “An’ + come spring, I’ll get another. I’ve been needin’ a new + boat a good while.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the <i>Andrew Halloran</i>. + “Got the money?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not <i>got</i> it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, + “but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew’s face lightened a little. “What you countin’ on?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William considered. “There’s the fish. Gunnion hain’t + settled with me yet for my fish.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’ve got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin’-house—” + </p> + <p> + Andrew’s small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o’ season?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn’t date the + ’count—just lumped ’em, so much a catch; saves trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew chuckled. “I’ve saved trouble that way myself.” + He made a rough calculation. “It won’t make a hunderd, all + told. How you goin’ to get the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe I shall borrow it,” said Uncle William. He looked + serenely at the sky. “Like enough <i>he’ll</i> send a little + suthin’,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Like enough!” said Andrew. + </p> + <p> + “He mentioned it,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light <i>p-f-f</i> + with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail + away. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William smiled. “You don’t have faith, Andy,” he + said reproachfully. “Folks do do things, a good many times—things + that they say they will. You o’t to have faith.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to + hev suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully. + </p> + <p> + They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the + sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the water + and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks. + </p> + <p> + Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless + critters,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ + like to see ’em, Andy—up and down and bobbin’ and + sloppin’ and scramblin’; you never know <i>where</i> they’ll + come up next.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat + the blamed things—nor wear ’em. I tell you, Willum,”—he + turned a gloomy eye on his companion,—“I tell you, you set too + much store by wuthless things.” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly. + </p> + <p> + “This one, now—this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave + of his hand that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ + him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ all summer?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William, + thoughtfully, “what I <i>did</i> get out o’ him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ump! I guess you couldn’t—nor anybody else. When he + sends you anything for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, + will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll + be reel pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + It was Indian summer. Uncle William was mending his chimney. He had built + a platform to work on. Another man would have clung to the sloping roof + while he laid the bricks and spread the mortar. But Uncle William had + constructed an elaborate platform with plenty of room for bricks and the + pail of mortar, and space in which to stretch his great legs. It was a + comfortable place to sit and look out over Arichat harbor. Andy, who had + watched the preparations with scornful eye, had suggested an arm-chair and + cushion. + </p> + <p> + “I like to be comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. + “I know I do. I don’t like to work none too well, anyhow. + Might as well be comf’tabul if you can.” + </p> + <p> + The platform was comfortable. Even Andy admitted that, when Uncle William + persuaded him to climb up one day, on the pretext of advising whether the + row of bricks below the roof line would hold. It was a clear, warm day, + with little clouds floating lightly, as in summer. Andy had climbed the + ladder grumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Nice place to see,” suggested Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + Andy peered down the chimney hole. “You will have to take off the + top row all around,” he said resentfully. + </p> + <p> + “Ye think so, do ye? I kind o’ thought so myself. They seemed + sort o’ tottery. But I thought mebbe they’d hold. Sit down, + Andy, sit down.” He pushed the pail of mortar a little to one side + to make room. + </p> + <p> + Andy edged away. “Can’t stop,” he said. He was searching + with his foot for the ladder. + </p> + <p> + “What you going to do?” demanded Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + Andy glanced at the sky. “I’m going to take in the <i>Andrew + Halloran</i>.” He was already on his way down the ladder. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pursued him, peering over. “You’ll have to have + me to help ye, Andy. Can’t you jest wait till to-morrow—till I + get my chimbley done?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been a month now,” said Andy. He was glowering + at the bay and the little boat bobbing below. + </p> + <p> + “I know it, Andy, I know it.” Uncle William was descending the + ladder with slow care. “But I don’t want my mortar to freeze, + and I’m kind o’ ’fraid of its comin’ off cold + again to-night. I was jest goin’ to begin to hurry up. I was goin’ + to begin to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I can get along without you,” said Andrew, doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no, you can’t, Andy. How you goin’ to haul her up?” + Uncle William spoke reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + Andy moved away. “I can do it, I guess.” He was mumbling it to + his teeth. “I don’t need anybody’s help.” + </p> + <p> + With a sigh and a look of affection at the platform and the pail and the + blue sky above, Uncle William followed him down the rocky path. + </p> + <p> + They worked busily all the morning, towing in the <i>Andrew Halloran</i>, + cleaning her up and stowing away tackle, making her ready for the winter. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon Uncle William mounted the roof again. His face, under its + vast calm, wore a look of resolve. He looked thoughtfully down the chimney + hole. Then he sat down on the platform and took up his trowel. He balanced + it on his palm and looked at the pile of bricks. His gaze wandered to the + sky. It swept the bay and came back across the moors. A look of soft + happiness filled it; the thin edges of resolve melted before it. “Best + kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William, “best kind—” + His eye fell on the pile of bricks and he took up one, looking at it + affectionately. He laid it in place and patted down the mortar, rumbling + to himself. + </p> + <p> + When Andy came by, half an hour later, three bricks were in place. Uncle + William nodded to him affably. “Where goin’, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “How much you got done?” demanded Andy. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at it thoughtfully. “Well, there’s quite + a piece. Comin’ up?” he said hopefully. + </p> + <p> + “It don’t show any.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it don’t show much—yet. It’s kind of down + below.—Think we’re goin’ to have a change?” The + tone was full of hopeful interest. + </p> + <p> + Andy nodded. “Freeze inside of twenty-four hours.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William scanned the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “When you calculatin’ to finish?” asked Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was thinkin’ of finishin’ to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s gaze sought the sun. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took up another brick. + </p> + <p> + Andy seated himself on a rock. He had done a good day’s work. His + conscience was clear; and then William worked better when Andy was around, + and Andy took pride in it. “Where’d you get your bricks?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at the one in his hand. “I wheeled them over + from the Bodet cellar-place. The’ ’s quite a pile left there + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “They all good?” + </p> + <p> + “Putty good.” Uncle William was working thoughtfully. “We’ve + set by them bricks a good many times, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yep.” + </p> + <p> + “You remember the things she used to give us to eat?” + </p> + <p> + Andy swung about. “Who give us?” + </p> + <p> + “Old Mis’ Bodet.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s eye lighted. “So she did. I’d forgot all about + ’em.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “There was a kind of tart she used to make—” + </p> + <p> + Andy broke in. A look of genuine enthusiasm filled his eye. “I know—that + gingery, pumpkin kind—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it. And you and me and Benjy used to sit and toast our + toes by the fire and eat it—” + </p> + <p> + “He was a mean cuss,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Who Benjy? Why, we was al’ays fond of Benjy!” Uncle + William’s face beamed over the edge of the roof. “We was fond + of him, wa’n’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “I wa’n’t,” said Andy, shortly. “He’ + lick a feller every chance he got.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s so—I guess that’s so.” Uncle + William was slapping on the mortar with heavy skill. “But he did it + kind o’ neat, didn’t he?” His eye twinkled to his work. + “‘Member that time you ’borrowed’ his lobster-pot—took + it up when it happened to have lobsters in it, and kep’ the lobsters—not + to hev ’em waste?” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s face was impassive. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you was fond of Benjy!” Uncle William spoke cheeringly. + “You’ve kind o’ forgot, I guess. And I set a heap o’ + store by him. He was jest about our age—twelve year the summer they + moved away. I cried much as a week, off and on I should think. Couldn’t + seem to get ust to not havin’ him around.” + </p> + <p> + “Reckon he’s dead by this time?” Andy spoke hopefully. A + little green gleam had crept into his eye. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William leaned over, looking down at him reproachfully. “Now, + what makes you say that, Andy? He don’t hev no more call to be dead’n + we do. We was both fond of him.” + </p> + <p> + Andy stirred uneasily. “I liked him well enough, but it ain’t + any use talkin’ about folks that’s moved away, or dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel that way, Andy? Now I don’t feel so.” Uncle + William’s gaze was following a floating cloud. “I feel as if + they was kind o’ near us; not touching close, but round somewheres. + Now, I wouldn’t really say Benjy Bodet was in that cloud—” + </p> + <p> + Andy stared at it suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “He ain’t really there, but it makes me feel the way he did. I + used to get up kind o’ light in the mornin’, ’cause I + was goin’ to see Benjy. The’ wa’n’t ever anybody I + was so fond of, except Jennie—and you, mebbe.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s gaze was looking out to sea. “You was mighty thick with + that painter chap,” he said gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “That wa’n’t the same,”—Uncle William spoke + thoughtfully,—“not quite the same.” + </p> + <p> + The gloom in Andy’s face lifted. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve thought about that a good many times,” went on + Uncle William. “It’s cur’us. You get to know folks that’s + a good deal nicer than your own folks that you was born and brought up and + have lived and quarreled with,—and you get to know ’em a good + deal better some ways—but they ain’t the same as your own.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s face had grown almost mild. “I guess that’s + right,” he said. “Now there’s Harr’et—I’ve + lived with Harr’et a good many year.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “She come from Digby way, didn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Northeast o’ Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa’n’t + even acquainted with her.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William chuckled. + </p> + <p> + Andy glanced at the sun. “I must be gettin’ home. It’s + supper-time.” His gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks + set above its line gleamed red and white in the sun. “You won’t + get that done to-night.” The tone was not acrid. It was almost + sympathetic—for Andy. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced at it placidly. “I reckon I shall. There’s + a moon, you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be + quite nice up here by moonlight.” + </p> + <p> + He set and watched Andy’s figure down the road. Then he took up the + trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the horizon. + It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little flames. The glow + of color spread from north to south. A breeze had sprung up and ruffled + the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to work. “Andy’s + right—it’s goin’ to change.” + </p> + <p> + He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It + shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little house. By + its light William put on the finishing touches. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the chimney + was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a stinging + keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it. One almost + listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long nights. Little + snow fell, and it was soon dispersed—whirled away on the fierce + blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and forth between + woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A roaring fire warmed + the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its depths. The pile of wood in + the shed lowered fast, and the pile of money hoarded behind the loose + brick in the chimney lowered with it—the money faster than the wood, + perhaps. There was a widow with three children, a mile down the shore. Her + husband had been drowned the year before, and there was no brick loose in + her chimney to look behind as the woodpile diminished. Old Grandma Gruchy, + too, who had outlived all her men folks and at ninety-three was still + tough and hearty, had need of things. + </p> + <p> + Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping a + casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a full + winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o’clock of + winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and the + floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an + uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the + stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered + about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had women + folks to do for him. + </p> + <p> + As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist—sometimes gay + and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the + letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. “He + don’t seem to be makin’ much money,” he would say from + time to time. The letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce + struggle. “He’s got another done,” Uncle William would + respond: “that makes three; that’s putty good.” Andy had + ceased to ask about the money for the boat—when it was coming. He + seemed to have accepted the fact that there would never be any, as + placidly as William himself. If there was dawning in his mind the virtuous + resolve to help out a little when the time came, no one would have guessed + it from the grim face that surveyed Uncle William’s movements with a + kind of detached scorn. Now and then Andy let fall a word of advice as to + the best way of adjusting a tin on the stove, or better methods for + cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes Uncle William followed the advice. It + generally failed to work. + </p> + <p> + It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a letter + from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and placed them + on his nose with a genial smile. + </p> + <p> + Andy had not relinquished the letter. “I can read it for ye,” + he volunteered. + </p> + <p> + “I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye.” Uncle William + reached out a hand for it. + </p> + <p> + Andy’s fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been + allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle + William’s spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when + Uncle William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of + news. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. “Now, + that’s good. He’s finished up five on ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “Five what?” + </p> + <p> + “Picters,” responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. + “There’s one of my house,”—lofty pride held the + voice,—“and one of the cove down below, and two up by the end + of old Bodet place, and one on the hill, this side of your place. Now, + that’s quite a nice lot, ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s he going to do with ’em,” asked Andy. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a kind of exhibit goin’ on.” Uncle + William consulted the letter. “‘The Exhibition of American + Artists’—suthin’ like a fair, I take it. And he’s + goin’ to send ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “Thinks he’ll take a prize, I s’pose.” Andy’s + tone held fine scepticism. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I dunno. He don’t say nuthin’ about a prize. He + does kind o’ hint that he’ll be sendin’ me suthin’ + pretty soon. I guess likely there’ll be prizes. He o’t to take + one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, fust-rate—” + </p> + <p> + “The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the <i>Jennie</i>.” + Andy spoke with sharp jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mebbe not—mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought + out the board and arranged the pieces with stiff fingers. + </p> + <p> + Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your move, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of the + game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers. + “Go ahead.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving + calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward. + </p> + <p> + “Same move you al’ays make,” said Andy, contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I beat that way, don’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “And sometimes you don’t.” Andy shoved forward another + piece. The quick movement expressed scorn of dawdlers. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care. + </p> + <p> + Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting his + forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached out and + drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the board. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him + benignantly. + </p> + <p> + Andy shifted a little in his chair. “You’re going to get into + trouble,” he said warningly, “if you move that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Like enough, like enough. I gen’ally do. Is it my move?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on + in earnest. Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice + Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he did it + with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and dashed + fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head to listen. + Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped men and placed + them one side with impassive faces. The board was clearing fast. Only + seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece with a swift flourish. He + gave a little growl of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted a + piece and moved it cautiously. + </p> + <p> + Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. “King,” he + announced. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He + looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in the + room. + </p> + <p> + Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his + gaze. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A little + conscious triumph flavored the nod. + </p> + <p> + Andy shoved back from the board. “Well, why don’t you take it? + Take it if you’re goin’ to, and don’t set there + cackling!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Andy!” Uncle William moved the man mildly. + </p> + <p> + Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William moved again. + </p> + <p> + Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you stay to dinner, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I was goin’ to have a little meat.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t stay.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s stormin’ putty hard.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> don’t care!” He moved toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. “You better + put this on if ye can’t stay. No use in gettin’ wet through.” + </p> + <p> + Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched him benignly. “If ’t was so ’s + ’t you could stay, we could play another after dinner—play the + rubber. You beat <i>me</i> last time, you know.” He took off the + stove-lid and peered in. + </p> + <p> + Andy’s eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. “When you + goin’ to have dinner?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinkin’ of havin’ it putty soon. I can have it + right off if you’ll stay—must be ’most time.” He + pulled a great watch from its fob pocket and looked at it with absent eye. + His gaze deepened. He looked up slowly. Then he smiled—a cheerful + smile that took in Andy, the board with its scattered checkers, Juno on + the lounge, and the whole red room. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what time is it?” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you’d better + stay,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers. A + touch of spring was in the air, but the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> rocked + alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at + her. Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the + artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at the letter in his + hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman’s + handwriting. + </p> + <p> + He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious fingers. + A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the floor. Uncle + William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it a little bashfully and + laid it on the table. He spread the letter before him, resting his elbows + on the table and bending above it laboriously. As he read, an anxious line + came between his eyes. “Now, that’s too bad—sick in bed—I + want to know—Well, well! Pshaw, you needn’t ’a’ + done that! Of course I’ll go.” He picked up the bluish slip + and looked at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat + surveying the red room. He shook his head slowly. “He must be putty + sick to feel like that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly. + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the + artist who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you that he is + very ill. He has not been well for two months or more, and for the last + three weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in his rooms alone and + there is no one to look after him. His friends have tried all along to + have him go to a hospital, or to let them take care of him. But until two + or three weeks ago he would have times of partial recovery—days when + he seemed perfectly well. So no one has guessed how really ill he is, and + they suppose now that he has gone away from the city to recuperate. No + one, except me, knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked + and no one answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort. He + has told me about you—how good you were to him last summer—” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked up, perplexed. “Sho, now! What does she mean by + that? I didn’t do nuthin’—nuthin’ to speak of.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He + has talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his illness, + earlier, when the fever was on, he would call for you—talking and + muttering in his sleep. If you could come down for a little while, I feel + almost sure that it would give him the start he needs. The fever makes him + distrustful of every one, but I know that he would see you. I am inclosing + a check for the trip. It is really money that belongs to him—to + Alan. He gave me last year a beautiful present—something far too + expensive for him to give; and now that he needs the money—needs to + see you—more than I need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging + that you will come very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you + about me. You will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that I + shall see you and know you when you come. + </p> + <p> + “Sincerely yours, + </p> + <p> + “SERGIA LVOVA.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded at the letter with a genial smile, as if he saw the + girl herself and responded to the wish. He returned the letter with the + blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed + the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn’t take their + money, nohow,” he said slowly. “I must go and see Andy. He’ll + help out. He’ll be reel glad to.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and began to set the table, bringing out the smoked herring and + bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a look of + satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into the + chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her bits of + the herring with impartial hand. When the meal was over, he went to the + chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in behind for the money. He + counted it slowly. “Not near enough,” he said, shaking his + head. “I knew there wa’n’t. I must go and see Andy.” + </p> + <p> + He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of hair + and tied his neckerchief anew. + </p> + <p> + He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in + silence, watching the scramble for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, + making a dash for a big cochin-china. “She eats a lot more ’an + her share,” he grumbled, shaking out the dish. “Comin’ + in?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a little suthin’ to talk over with ye,” + said William. + </p> + <p> + “Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew. + </p> + <p> + Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, + William drew out the envelope. “I’ve got a letter—” + </p> + <p> + Andy eyed it. “From that painter chap?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not exactly. But it’s about him. He’s in a good + deal of trouble—” + </p> + <p> + “What’s he been doin’?” demanded Andy. + </p> + <p> + “He’s been bein’ sick,” said William, + reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Andy’s face fell. + </p> + <p> + “He’s sick now,” went on Uncle William. He drew the + letter from its envelope. “He’s feeling putty bad.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter of him?” said Andy, gruffly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William studied the letter. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a kind o’ fever—I guess—intermittent. + Runs for a while, then lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had + it once—don’t you remember?—the whole crew, that time we + broke down off Madagascar? ’Member how sick we felt?” Uncle + William looked at him mildly. + </p> + <p> + Andy’s eye was fixed on the bay. “How d’ you know it’s + the same?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t <i>know</i> it’s the same—not just + the same, but she says—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Who</i> says?” Andy whirled about. + </p> + <p> + “Why, <i>she</i> says—Sergia says.—Didn’t I jest + tell you, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t tell me nuthin’,” said Andy. He had + returned to the bay. + </p> + <p> + “She is his—she is goin’ to marry him,” said + William. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel. “When + they goin’ to be married?” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “That’s jest it, Andy. They’re + in a heap o’ trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Andy stirred uneasily. “What’d she write to <i>you</i> for?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m comin’ to that—if you’ll give me time. + She thought mebbe I could help—” + </p> + <p> + Andy moved a little away. “You hain’t got the means,” he + said decisively. + </p> + <p> + “No”—the tone was soothing—“but I can get + it, mebbe. She wants me to come down.” + </p> + <p> + “To New York? <i>You!</i>” Andy looked at him. + </p> + <p> + William returned the look apologetically. “Does sound ridiculous, + don’t it, Andy? I shouldn’t ever ’a’ thought of + the thing myself, but she says he kind o’ needs me. Keeps askin’ + for me when the fever is on, and don’t seem to get along much when + it lets up. She kind o’ thinks if I was there, it would help him to + brace up, somehow, a little.” + </p> + <p> + Andy made no response. The green light was dawning far down in his eye. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched it. “It’s jest a sick man’s fancy, + like enough.” + </p> + <p> + “When you goin’?” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “I though ’bout day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “It’ll cost a heap.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got it, I s’pose?” indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “Some of it,” said William. + </p> + <p> + Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the bench. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. “I was + goin’ to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy wriggled a little. “You don’t <i>hev</i> to go,” he + said feebly. + </p> + <p> + “If he needs me, I’ll have to. I ain’t ever been needed + much—livin’ alone so. You don’t know how ’t is. + You have somebody to need you. Harriet needs you—” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, yes, Harr’et needs me. Don’t doubt she needs me + this minute—pail o’ water or suthin’.” Andrew + chuckled gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “And you hev your chickens, too.” Uncle William fixed his + glance placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner, + cocking a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully. + “When a man’s alone, there ain’t much he can do for + folks,” he said slowly, “except feed Juno night and mornin’,—and + she catches so many mice it ain’t really wuth while. Now a hen needs + to be fed.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess they do,” grumbled Andy. + </p> + <p> + “And a cow,” went on Uncle William, “but there—” + he checked himself. “What am I talkin’ about? How’d I + ever keep a cow? What’d I do with the milk? I couldn’t eat a + whole cowful.” He sat gazing with far-off eyes at the glimpse of + blue water. + </p> + <p> + Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry grass. + </p> + <p> + William turned to him suddenly. “We’ll go down and draw out + the money to-morrow morning,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andy chewed anxiously. “I dunno as I can let you have it,” he + protested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you’ll let me. You see I <i>need</i> it, Andy, and I’m + goin’ to pay you six per cent. How much do you get at the bank? Not + more’n five, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Four and a half,” said Andy, grudgingly. + </p> + <p> + “Four and a half. Well, you see, I give you six. So there’s a + dollar and a half clear gain.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew’s eyes narrowed to the dollar and a half and fed on it + awhile. “I shall hev to ask Harr’et,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I wouldn’t ask Harriet.” Uncle William spoke + soothingly. “She don’t agree with you and me a good many times—Harriet + don’t.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew admitted it. He chewed awhile in silence. “You’ll give + me a mortgage?” he said at last. The tone was crafty. + </p> + <p> + “On my place!” Uncle William was roused. “No, sir, I don’t + give mortgages to nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I don’t see as I can let you hev it,” said Andy. + “It’s fair to ask for a mortgage. What if anything should + happen to ye—down there in New York? Where’d <i>I</i> be?” + He looked at him reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>would</i> miss me, Andy, and I know it. I’m goin’ + to be careful. I shan’t take no more resks ’n I have to.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor me, neither,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, Andy, you be careful, too, while I’m + gone. Why, ’t wouldn’t ever be like home—to come back + and not find you here.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s eyes widened. “What you talkin’ ’bout?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s gaze was on him affectionately. He looked a little + puzzled. “I dunno jest what I <i>did</i> start to say,” he + said apologetically. “I was thinkin’ what a store I set by + you, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s face softened a trifle. “Now, look here, Willum, a + mortgage is fair. It wouldn’t hurt you none, nor your place—” + </p> + <p> + William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Andy. I wouldn’t + reely trust you with a mortgage. You might get scared and foreclose some + day if I couldn’t pay the interest, and you’d be ashamed + enough—doin’ a thing like that.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Andy drew the hundred from the bank and turned it over to + William without even a note to guard his sacred rights. Andy had tried in + the night watches to formulate a note. He had selected the best, from a + row of crafty suggestions, about four o’clock. But later, as he and + William went up the road, the note dropped by the way. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William stowed the money in his pocket with a comfortable smile. + “You’ve done the right thing, Andy, and I shall pay you back + when I can. You’ll get your interest reg’lar—six per + cent.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s face held a kind of subdued gloom. He mourned not as those + without hope, but with a chastened expectancy. To lend William money had + almost the fine flavor of gambling. + </p> + <p> + He saw him off the following morning, with a sense of widened interests. + He carried, moreover, an additional burden. “Remember, Andy,” + Uncle William called to him as the boat moved away, “she don’t + like potato, and she won’t touch a mite of fish—‘ceptin’ + herrin’.” Juno had been intrusted to him. + </p> + <p> + Andy grinned a sickly good-by. “Good-by, Willum; I’ll do as + well as I can by her.” He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. + The island seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at + home. The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did + not include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed + heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house, thinking + to shift the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused sternly. + “She wouldn’t be comfortable, Andy. The’ ’s a good + deal of soap and water down to your house and she wouldn’t like it. + You can run up two or three times, easy, to see she’s all right. + Mebbe you’ll get fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the + wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so + comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path to + it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When she saw who + it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she always + jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the lounge and tuned + her back to the room, looking out of the window and blinking from time to + time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the distance. + </p> + <p> + Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The sun + poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy’s eyes rested on it + vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of presence. + Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood by + the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and + blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze + returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He drew + it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something. He went + out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her immovable gaze, + stared out to sea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring + warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There was a + dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating—of decayed + vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell the + world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he watched + the play of life in the dockshed—the backing of horses and the + shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and the + trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales. + </p> + <p> + He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey—the + sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from the + vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are + innumerable details—duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays + and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with + the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep Sea—without + hurry and without rest. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends + with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great bulk + towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down the + length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way. He + might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in with a + good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after him + gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only soul at + rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his part in + similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and calling outside + had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was only one more foreign + port, and he had touched too many to have fear of them. They were all + alike—exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their fare if you stood + by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms were made; + rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from the wharf; + soiled women haunting one’s steps, if one halted a bit or turned to + the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of every port. + They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin hands about + the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most where the + rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William knew them + well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could turn a young + man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face. Uncle William + had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a sailor’s + unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port. He knew + which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and cursing and + calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye. + </p> + <p> + “What’ll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?” + Uncle William indicated the youth beside him. + </p> + <p> + The driver looked him over with keen eye. “That’s all right.” + He moved along on the seat to make room. “Come on, young man.” + </p> + <p> + The youth climbed up with clumsy foot. + </p> + <p> + “You might know of a job,” suggested Uncle William. “He + looks strong and willin’.” + </p> + <p> + The man nodded back. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” The + van rumbled away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more. + </p> + <p> + He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and women. + Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at night, as they + wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached to them across time + and gave them a sense of the goodness of life before they turned again and + slept. + </p> + <p> + If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither and + thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his great + frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them—with the + breath of winds about it—or some huge, quiet engine at sea, making + its way with throbbing power. + </p> + <p> + If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William’s mind, it did + not disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it + had for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next at + hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the ground and + the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it. If this were + philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He called it + “jest livin’ along.” + </p> + <p> + It was ten o’clock before he reached the artist’s rooms, and + his rap at the door, gentle as a woman’s, brought no response. He + rapped again. + </p> + <p> + “What’s wanted?” It was the querulous voice of a sick + man. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind him + for his box. + </p> + <p> + The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim + light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. “There, there,” + he said soothingly. “I guess I’d lie down.” He put his + hands on the young man’s shoulders, pushing him back gently. + </p> + <p> + The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. “Who—are—you?” + he said. The words were a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Williams’ smile deepened. “I guess ye know <i>me</i> all + right, don’t ye?” + </p> + <p> + The artist continued to stare at him. “You came through the door. It + was locked.” + </p> + <p> + “Shucks, no!” said Uncle William. “‘T wa’n’t + locked any more’n I be. You jest forgot it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I?” The tense look broke. “I thought you had come + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hev.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean that way. Sit down.” He looked feebly for + a chair. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward a + little. One big hand rested on the young man’s wrist. “Now, + tell me all about it,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath. “Yes—you’ve + come,” he said. “You’ve come.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come,” said Uncle William. His big bulk had not + stirred. It seemed to fill the room. + </p> + <p> + The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. “I’ve wanted—you.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “Sick folks get fancies,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “—and I kept seeing you in the fever—and you—” + The voice droned away and was still. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse + slowed—and leaped again—and fluttered, and fell at last to + even beats. The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a + half-smile. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room, his + face had a kind of gentleness—a kindliness and bigness that watched + over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as he + opened his eyes. “You are not gone!” + </p> + <p> + “Gone? Land, no!” Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing + his eyes and blinking a little. “I cal’ate to stay quite a + spell yet.” He stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then + the other, as if testing them. + </p> + <p> + Reproach filled the artist’s eyes. “You’ve not lain down + all night!” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t need to,” said Uncle William. He got to his feet + briskly. “I slep’ a good deal comin’ down in the boat. + There wa’n’t a great deal goin’ on. If you’ve got + a little water and soap handy, I reckon I could use it.” + </p> + <p> + The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. “Now, + stay right there. You jest tell me where things be—” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a door at the left. “You won’t find it in very + good order, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you mind.” Uncle William had disappeared through + the doorway. “It won’t bother me a mite.” His voice came + back sociably. “I’m considabul ust to havin’ things + mussed up.” + </p> + <p> + The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through the + half-open door—thumping and blowing and splashing. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William reappeared with shining face. “It seems good to hev + suthin’ bigger’n a teacup to wash in,” he said. “I + like the hull ocean, myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me + see.” + </p> + <p> + He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m all right—now.” + </p> + <p> + “Had a fever?” + </p> + <p> + “A little—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You all alone?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a man comes in by and by. He’ll clean up and + get things for me.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. “Jest roll over a + little mite. There—” He placed his broad hand under the thin + back. “Feel sore there? Kind o’ hurts, don’t it? I + thought so—There.” He laid him back gently. “You jest + wait a minute.” He was fumbling at the lock that held his box. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a doctor?” The young man was watching him with + half-amused eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not a doctor exactly.” Uncle William had taken out a + small bottle and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. + “But I had a fever once, myself—kep’ a-runnin’.” + He had come over to the bedside, the bottle in his hand. “You got a + doctor?” + </p> + <p> + The young man shook his head. “He will come if I send for him.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “That’s the best kind.” He held + out the bottle. “I’d like to give you ’bout five on + ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s what I don’t know, but it took about five + on ’em to break up mine.” He had poured one into the palm of + his hand and held it out. It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with + grayish surface pitted with black. + </p> + <p> + The young man eyed it doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>don’t</i> look very nice,” said Uncle William, + “and the man that made it never had a stitch of clothes on his back + in his life; but I guess you better take it.” + </p> + <p> + The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish, + sweetish taste behind it. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William brought him a glass of water. “I know how it tastes, + but I reckon it’ll do the work. Now, let’s see.” he + stood back, surveying the untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. “‘T + is kind o’ cluttered up,” he said. “I’ll jest make + a path through.” He gathered up a handful of shoes and slippers and + thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread down to hid them. The cups + and glasses and scattered spoons and knives he bore away to the bath-room, + and the artist heard them descending into the tub with a sound of rushing + water. Uncle William returned triumphant. “I’ve put ’em + a-soak,” he explained. The table-spread, with its stumps of cigars, + bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and books and paint-brushes + and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners, dumping it into a half-open + drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. “Might ’s well start + fresh.” He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying it proudly. + “What’s that door?” He pointed across the room. + </p> + <p> + “It’s your bedroom,” said the artist, a little uneasily. + “But I don’t believe you can get in.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked + in. He came back beaming. “The’ ’s quite a nice lot of + room,” he said, taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it + away. + </p> + <p> + The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The + window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there, but + Uncle William’s path was a success. The sun was coming over the tops + of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with shining face. + </p> + <p> + “You reely needed a man around,” he said. “I’m + putty glad I come.” + </p> + <p> + “What made you come?” asked the artist. + </p> + <p> + “What made me?” Uncle William paused, looking about him. + “Where’s my spectacles? Must ’a’ left ’em in + there.” He disappeared once more. + </p> + <p> + While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when he + opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of + something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising + it while he drank. + </p> + <p> + The artist took his time—in slow, surprised sips. “It’s + good!” he said. He released the cup slowly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I’ve been overhaulin’ your locker + a little.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t find <i>that</i> in it.” The artist motioned + to the cup. + </p> + <p> + “Well—all but a drop or two,” said Uncle William, + setting it down. “A drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make + ’most anything tasty, I reckon. I’ll go out and stock up + pretty soon.” + </p> + <p> + A slow color had come into the artist’s face. He turned it away. + “I don’t need much,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No more’n a robin,” said Uncle William, cheerfully; + “but I can’t live on bird-seed myself. I reckon I’ll lay + in suthin’—two-three crackers, mebbe, enough to make a + chowder.” + </p> + <p> + The young man laughed out. “I feel better,” he declared. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good pill,” said Uncle William. “Must be + ’most time for another.” He pulled out his great watch. + “Jest about.” He doled out the pill with careful hand. + </p> + <p> + The young man looked at the bottle. “You haven’t many left?” + </p> + <p> + “Eight more,” said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. + “That ’lows for one more fever for me afore I die—I don’t + cal’ate to have but one more.” He looked about for his hat. + “I’m goin’ out a little while,” he said, settling + it on his head. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, Uncle William.” The young man stretched out + his hand. “How did you come to know I needed you?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “Why, that + was nateral enough,” he said. “When Sergia wrote me, sayin’ + you was sick—” + </p> + <p> + “Sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. + “She should not have done it. She had no right—” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. + There was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “You’re + goin’ to be married, ain’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The head on the pillow turned uneasily. “No—not now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never be able to take care of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Shucks!” said Uncle William. “Let her take care of you, + then.” + </p> + <p> + The tears of weakness came into the young man’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s gaze was fixed on space. “You’ve been + foolish,” he said—“turrible foolish. I don’t doubt + she wants to marry you this minute.” + </p> + <p> + “She shall not do it.” He spoke almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “There, there,” said Uncle William, soothingly, “I + wouldn’t make such a fuss about it. Nobody’s goin’ to + marry you ’thout you want ’em to. You jest quiet down and go + to sleep. We’ll talk it over when I come back.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. “Feelin’ + better?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him + pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his shirt-sleeves. + His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. “I’ve got a + chowder going’,” he said. “You take another pill and + then you’ll be about ready to eat some of it, when it’s done.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I eat chowder?” The tone was dubious, but meek. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got all your teeth, hain’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I guess you can eat it.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t been eating much.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think you had.” Uncle William spoke dryly. + “You needn’t be a mite afraid o’ one o’ my + chowders. A baby could eat ’em, if it had got its teeth.” + </p> + <p> + The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle + William refused him sternly. “You jest wait awhile,” he said, + bearing away the empty plate. “There ain’t more’n enough + for a comfortable dish for me. You don’t want to eat it all, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the artist, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “I thought not.” It took Uncle William a long time to eat his + portion, and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of + the great jaw as it went slowly back and forth. + </p> + <p> + When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat by + the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed as the + artist stirred. “You’ve had a good long sleep.” He laid + a hand on the moist forehead. “That’s good. Fever’s + gone.” + </p> + <p> + “It will come back. It always does.” There was anxious dread + in the tone. + </p> + <p> + “It won’t this time.” Uncle William sat nodding at him + mildly. “I know how you feel—kind o’ scared to believe + anything—anything that’s good.” + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled. “<i>You</i> never felt that way!” + </p> + <p> + “Jest that way,” said Uncle William. “I didn’t <i>want</i> + to believe I wa’n’t al’ays goin’ to be sick. I kep’ + kind o’ thinkin’ I’d rather be sick’n not—jest + as if the devil had me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes”—the young man spoke almost eagerly—“it’s + the way I’ve been! Only I didn’t know it till you said so.” + </p> + <p> + “The’ ’s a good many things we don’t know—not + jest exactly know—till somebody says ’em.” + </p> + <p> + They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done some queer things,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + “Like enough.” Uncle William did not ask what they were. + </p> + <p> + “They begin to look foolish.” He turned his head a little. + </p> + <p> + “Do you good—best thing in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how I <i>could</i>.” The tone was uneasy. + “I must have been beastly to her.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t tell you?” The artist was looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “She? Lord, no! women don’t tell anything you’ve done to + ’em—not if it’s anything bad.” + </p> + <p> + “I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept + coming back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take care + of me.” He was not looking at Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “And you wouldn’t let her?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t—There was no money,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. “Comf’tabul + place,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The artist flushed. “She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have + turned me out long since. I haven’t asked, but I know she pays it. + There is no one else.” + </p> + <p> + “She is rich, probably,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Rich?” The young man smiled bitterly. “She has what she + earns. She works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing + for either of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless suthin’ come in,” said Uncle William. + “Suthin’ might come in. You’d kind o’ like to see + her, wouldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. “Not till I can pay + her back, every cent!” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you need another pill, likely,” said Uncle William. He + got up in the dark and groped about for the bottle. His great form loomed + large above the bed as he handed it to the young man. “That’s + four,” he said soothingly. “Jest about one more’ll fix + ye.” + </p> + <p> + The young man swallowed it almost grudgingly. He lay back upon the pillow. + “I can pay her the money sometime.” His gaunt eyes were + staring into the dark. “But I can never make up to her for the way I + treated her.” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe she didn’t mind,” said Uncle William, + non-committally. “Sometimes they don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind? She couldn’t help minding. I was a fiend to her. I did + everything but strike her.” + </p> + <p> + A smile grew, out of the dark, in Uncle William’s face. “I was + thinkin’ about that ol’ chief,” he said slowly—“the + one that give me the pills. I treated him—why, I treated him wuss + ’n anything. ’Course, he wa’n’t like white folks; + but I was fightin’ crazy with the fever, not sick enough to go to + bed, but jest sittin’ around and jawin’ at things. I dunno <i>how</i> + he come to take such a likin’ to me. Might ’a’ been on + account o’ my size—we was about the same build. I’d set + and jaw at him, callin’ him names. Don’t s’pose he + understood half of ’em, but he could see plain enough I was spittin’ + mad. He’d kind o’ edge up to me, grinnin’ like and + noddin’, and fust thing I knew, one day, he’d fetched a pill + and made me take it. I was mad enough to ’a’ killed him easy, + but ’fore I could get up to do it, I fell asleep somehow. And when I + woke up I felt different. <i>You</i> feel different, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled through the soft dark. “I would like to get down + on my knees.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William smoothed the spread in place. “They’d feel kind + o’ sharp, I guess. I wouldn’t try it—not yet. You wait + till Sergia comes.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Will</i> she come?” + </p> + <p> + “She’d come to-night if she knew you wanted her. You go to + sleep, and in the mornin’ you’ll take that other pill.” + He lifted the pillow and turned it over, patting it in place. “Why, + that ol’ chief he was so glad when he see me feelin’ better he + acted kind o’ crazy-like. I held out my hand to him when I woke up; + but he didn’t know anything about shakin’ hands. He jest got + down and took my feet and hugged ’em. It made me feel queer,” + said Uncle William. “You do feel queer when you hain’t acted + jest right.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + “Can I see her to-day?” It was the first question in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + “You better?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You feelin’ well enough to sit up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you can stay where you be another day.” Uncle + William smiled cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Can I see her?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see about that. I’ve got a good many things to + tend to.” Uncle William bustled away. + </p> + <p> + After a time his head was thrust in the door. “I’ll go see + her, myself, byme-by,” he said kindly. “Mebbe she’ll + come back with me.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too late now.” The artist spoke a little bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Too late!” Uncle William came out, reproachful and surprised. + “What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quarter to nine. She goes to work at nine. She has + pupils—she teaches all day.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face dropped a little. “That’s too bad + now, ain’t it! But don’t you mind. I wa’n’t just + certain I’d let you see her to-day, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “When can I?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pondered. “You’re in a good deal of a hurry, ain’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell her—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know. Well, ’bout to-morrow. How’d that do?” + </p> + <p> + “You could send her a note,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + “I’m goin’ to see her,” said Uncle William. + “She’ll be to home this evenin’, won’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go see her.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked doubtful. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I got see her?” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “I was wondering whether you could find the way.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m-m. Where’d you say it was?” + </p> + <p> + “Eighteenth Street, near Broadway.” + </p> + <p> + “Eighteenth? That’s somewheres between Seventeenth and + Nineteenth, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The artist smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. And I don’t s’pose + they’ve changed the lay of Broadway a gre’ deal?” + </p> + <p> + “No—not much.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen’ally do; and I can’t + get far out o’ the way with this.” He touched the compass that + hung from the fob of the great watch. “I’ve been putty much + all over the world with that. I reckon it’ll p’int about the + same in New York as it does in Arichat. Now, I’ve got your breakfast + ’most ready, but I can’t seem to remember about your coffee.—You + take sugar and milk in it, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The tone was almost sulky. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. “I don’t + believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s face changed subtly—like a child’s. It was + almost cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William laughed out. “That’s better—a little mite + better. I guess ’bout day after to-morrow you’ll do to see + company.” + </p> + <p> + The young man stretched out a hand. “I <i>must</i> see her. I shall + get up—” + </p> + <p> + “There, there. I wouldn’t try to get up if I was you,” + said Uncle William, genially. “I’ve put away your clothes, + different places. I don’t jest know where they be, myself. It’ll + be quite a chore to get ’em all together. You jest lie still, and + let me manage.” + </p> + <p> + The young man ate his breakfast with relish. A subtle resolve to get up + and do things was in his eye. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched it, chuckling. “Sha’n’t be able to + keep him there more’n a day longer,” he said. “Better + feed him well whilst I can.” He prepared clam-broth and toast, and + wondered about an omelet, rolling in and out of the room with comfortable + gait. + </p> + <p> + The artist ate everything that was set before him, eagerly. The resolve in + his eye yielded to appreciation. “You ought to have been a chef, + Uncle William. I never tasted anything better than that.” He was + eating a last bit of toast, searching with his fork for stray crumbs. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “The’ ’s a good many things I’d + o’t to ’a’ been if I’d had time. That’s the + trouble with livin’. You don’t hev time. You jest practise a + day or two on suthin’—get kind o’ ust to it—and + then you up and hev to do suthin’ else. I like cookin’ fust + rate while I’m doin’ it. . . . I dunno as I <i>should</i> like + it reg’lar, though. It’d be kind o’ fiddlin’ work, + gettin’ up and makin’ omelets every mornin’.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re an artist,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe. Don’t you think you’ve licked that plat about + clean?” Uncle William looked at it approvingly. “It ain’t + much work to wash dishes for you.” + </p> + <p> + At intervals during the day the artist demanded his clothes, each time a + little more vigorously. Uncle William put him off. “I don’t + see that picter of my house anywheres ’round,” he said when + pressed too close. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You sent it off?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The young man was silent a minute. “Sergia took + them—all of them—when I fell sick. They were not ready—not + even framed. She was to send them to the committee. I have not heard.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go see ’em in the mornin’,” said Uncle + William. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that you can—” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t anybody go in—if it’s an exhibit—by + payin’ suthin’?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean, I don’t know that they’re hung.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wouldn’t bother about that. I’d like to see + ’em jest as well if they ain’t hung. I’m putty tall, but + I can scooch down as well as anybody. It’ll seem kind o’ good + to see the ol’ place. I was thinkin’ this mornin’ I wish’t + there was two-three rocks round somewheres. I guess that’s what + picters are for. Some folks <i>hev</i> to live in New York—can’t + <i>get</i> away. I sha’n’t mind if they ain’t hung up. I + can see ’em all right, scoochin’ a little.” + </p> + <p> + The young man smiled. “I don’t know that they’re + accepted.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not—if she sent ’em?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she sent them all right. They may have been refused.” + </p> + <p> + “At an exhibit?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, up our way we don’t do like that. We take everything + that comes in—pies and pickles and bedquilts and pumpkins and + everything; putty triflin’ stuff, some of it, but they take it. This + is different, I s’pose?” + </p> + <p> + “A little. Yes. They only take the best—or what they call the + best.” The tone was bitter. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him mildly. “Then they took yourn—every + one on ’em. They was as good picters as I ever see.” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s face lightened a little. “They <i>were</i> good.” + His thought dwelt on them lovingly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William slipped quietly away to his room. The artist heard him + moving about, opening and shutting bureau drawers, humming gently and + fussing and talking in broken bits. Time passed. It was growing dark in + the room. + </p> + <p> + The artist turned a little impatiently. “Hallo there!” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William stuck out his head. “Want suthin’?” + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” said the artist. It was almost + querulous. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William came out, smoothing his neckerchief. It was a new one, blue + like the sky. “I was fixin’ up a little to go see her. Do I + look to suit you?” He moved nearer in the dusk with a kind of high + pride. The tufts of hair stood erect on his round head, the neckerchief + had a breezy knot with fluttering ends, and the coat hung from his great + shoulders like a sail afloat. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked him over admiringly. “You’re great!” + he said. “How did you come to know enough not to change?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve changed everything!” declared Uncle William. His + air of pride drooped a little. + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out. “I mean you kept your same kind of clothes. + A good many people, when they come down here to New York, try to dress + like other folks—get new things.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face cleared. He looked down his great bulk with a + smile. “I like my own things,” he said. “I feel to home + in ’em.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the card + tacked on the panel. “Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin.” + </p> + <p> + He knocked gently. + </p> + <p> + “Come in.” The call came clear and straight. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William opened the door. + </p> + <p> + A girl sat at a table across the room, her eyes protected by a green shade + from the lamp that burned near and threw its light on the page she was + copying. She glanced up as the door opened and pushed up the green shade, + looking out from under it inquiringly. She peered a moment and then sprang + up, thrusting aside the shade with a quick turn. “I am so glad you’ve + come.” She crossed the room, holding out her hands. There was + something clear and fresh in the motion—like a free creature, out of + doors. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William stood smiling at her. “How do you know it’s me?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed quietly. “There couldn’t be two.” Her + voice had a running, musical quality, with deep notes in it and a little + accent that caught at the words, tripping them lightly. She had taken his + hands with a swift movement and was holding them, looking at him + earnestly. “You are just as he said,” she nodded. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned the look. The upturned face flushed a little, but + it did not fall. He put out his hand and touched it. “Some like a + flower,” he said, “as near as I can make out—in the + dark.” He looked about the huge, bare room, with its single flame + shining on the page. + </p> + <p> + She moved away and lighted a gas-jet on the wall, and then another. She + faced about, smiling. “Will that do?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I like a considabul light,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” She drew forward a chair. “Sit down.” + </p> + <p> + She folded her hands lightly, still scanning him. Uncle William settled + his frame in the big chair. His glance traveled about the room. The two + gas-jets flared at dark corners. A piano emerged mistily. Music-racks + sketched themselves on the blackness. The girl’s face was the only + bit of color. It glowed like a red flower, out of the gloom. Uncle William’s + glance came back to it. “I got your letter all right,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would come.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” He was searching absently in his pocket. He drew out + the bluish slip of paper with rough edge. He handed it to her gravely. + “I couldn’t take that, my dear, you know.” + </p> + <p> + She put it aside on the table. “I thought you might not have money + enough to come at once, and he needed you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he needed me. He’s better.” + </p> + <p> + Her face lightened. The rays of color awoke and played in it. “You + have cured him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,”—Uncle William was judicious,—“I give + him a pill.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed out. “He needed <i>you</i>,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” Uncle William leaned forward. “I never had + anybody need me—not really need me.” His tone confided it to + her. + </p> + <p> + She looked back at him. “I should think every one would.” + </p> + <p> + He looked a little puzzled. “I dunno. But I see, from the way you + wrote, that <i>he</i> did, so I come right along.” + </p> + <p> + “He will get well now.” + </p> + <p> + “He was middlin’ discouraged,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “He couldn’t see anything the way it is.” Her face had + flushed a little, but the light in her eyes was clear. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William met it. “You showed a good deal of sense,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + The face, as she pushed back the hair from it, looked tired. “I had + to think for two.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “He wants to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She mused over it. “Do you think I’d better?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Uncle William, promptly. + </p> + <p> + Her lips remained parted. “Not to-morrow?” she said. Her lips + closed on the word gently. + </p> + <p> + “Not for a considabul spell.” Uncle William shook his head. + “He ain’t acted right.” + </p> + <p> + “He was ill.” + </p> + <p> + “He was sick,” admitted Uncle William, “—some. But + it was some cussedness, too. That ain’t the main thing though.” + Uncle William leaned nearer. “He’ll get well faster if he has + suthin’ to kind o’ pester him.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with open eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the way men be,” said Uncle William. “The + Lord knew how ’t was, I reckon, when he made ’em. He hadn’t + more’n got ’em done, ’fore he made wimmen.” He + beamed on her genially. “He’ll get well a good deal faster if + the’ ’s suthin’ he thinks he wants and can’t have.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. How will you keep him away?” A little twinkle sounded in + her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take him home with me,” said Uncle William, + “up to Arichat.” + </p> + <p> + “Now?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in a day or two—soon’s it’s safe. It’d + do anybody good.” His face grew wistful. “If you jest see it + once, the way it is, you’d know what I mean: kind o’ big + sweeps,”—he waved his arm over acres of moor,—“an’ + a good deal o’ sky—room enough for clouds, sizable ones, and + wind. You’d o’t to hear our wind.” He paused, helpless, + before the wind. He could not convey it. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> heard it.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. “You been there?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen it, I mean—in Alan’s pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, them!” His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought + hung on it. “Where be they?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “At the ’Exhibition of American Artists.’” It was + the tone of sheer pride. + </p> + <p> + “They took ’em, did they?” said William. + </p> + <p> + “They couldn’t help it. They sent back one for lack of room, + but he will have four hung.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good. You haven’t told him?” + </p> + <p> + “I only heard an hour ago, and I had copying to finish. I have a + little recital, of my pupils, this evening. I was planning to write the + letter and mail it on the way out.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William started up. “I’m hinderin’ ye.” + </p> + <p> + “No—please.” She had forced him back gently. “I + shall not have to write the letter now. Tell me about him.” Her face + was alight. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William considered. “The’ ain’t much to tell, I + guess. He’s gettin’ better. He’s actin’ the way + men gen’ally do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—?” Her voice sang a little. “And he wants to + see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Wust way,” said Uncle William; “but he ain’t goin’ + to. What was you copyin’ when I come in?” + </p> + <p> + “Some music—for one of the big houses. It helps out.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William was looking at her thoughtfully. “He’d better + give up his place when we go,” he said. “He’ll, like + enough, stay with me all summer.” + </p> + <p> + “His rooms, you mean?” She mused a little. “Yes, perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “They must cost a good deal,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “They do.” She paused a minute. “He is almost sure to + take a prize,” she said. “It’s the best work he has + done.” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll be good,” said Uncle William. “But we won’t + count too much on it. He won’t need money in Arichat. A little goes + a long ways up there. Good night.” He was holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + She placed hers in it slowly. Uncle William lifted the slim fingers. He + patted them benignly. “They don’t look good for much, but they’re + pretty,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She laughed out quietly. “They have to be,” she said. “They’re + my tools. I <i>have</i> to be careful of them. That is one of the things + we quarreled about—Alan and I. He knew I ought not to use them and + he wouldn’t let me do things for him, and he wouldn’t have a + nurse, nor go to the hospital.” She sighed a little. “He was + very obstinate.” + </p> + <p> + “Just like a mule,” assented Uncle William. He was stroking + the fingers gently. “But he’s got a new driver this time.” + He chuckled a little. + </p> + <p> + She looked up quickly. “Has he consented to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we’re goin’.—It comes to the same thing I + reckon,” said Uncle William. He was looking at the dark face with + the darker lines beneath the eyes. “You’ll hev an easier time,” + he said. “It’s been putty hard on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t mind,” quickly, “—only the + misunderstandings—and the quarrels—” + </p> + <p> + “That was the fever,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “But <i>I</i> didn’t have the fever,” said the girl. + “I might have been patient.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself’d quarrel with a man + that had one of them intermittent fevers,” said the old man + thoughtfully. “They’re powerful trying’. You feel better—a + little—and you perk up and think you’re goin’ to get + well, and then, fust thing you know, there you are—all to do over + again. If I had my ch’ice of all the diseases in the calendar, that’s + the one I <i>wouldn’t</i> take. Some on ’em you hev the + comfort of knowin’ you’ll die of ’em—if ye live + long enough.” He chuckled a little. “But this one, ye can’t + die and ye can’t get well.” + </p> + <p> + “But <i>he</i> is going to get well?” The girl’s eyes + held him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’ll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell—and + the sun. The fever’s broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and + good company. You’ll be comin’ up to see us byme-by, mebbe?” + He looked at her hopefully. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I could?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I dunno why not. He’ll be gettin’ restless in a + month or so. You might as well be married up there as anywhere. We’ve + got a good minister—a fust-rate one.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled a little wistfully. “He won’t have me,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Shucks!” said Uncle William. “You come up, and if he + don’t marry you, I will.” + </p> + <p> + A bell sounded somewhere. She started. “I must go.” A thought + crossed her face. “I wonder if you would like it—the recital?” + She was looking at him, an amused question in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Is it speaking pieces?” said Uncle William, cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “Playing them, and singing—one or two. It’s a musicale, + you know. You might like it—” She was still thinking, her + forehead a little wrinkled. “They are nice girls and—Oh—?” + the forehead suddenly lifted, “you <i>would</i> like it. There are + sea-pieces—MacDowell’s. They’re just the thing.—” + She held him hospitably.—“Do come. You would be sure to enjoy + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Like enough,” said Uncle William. “It takes all kinds + of singing to make a world. I might like ’em fust-rate. And it won’t + take long?” + </p> + <p> + “No—only an hour or two. You can leave <i>him</i>, can’t + you?” The pretty forehead had wrinkled again. + </p> + <p> + “Easy as not,” said Uncle William. “Best thing for him. + He’ll have a chance to miss me a little.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him reproachfully. “We’ll have to hurry, I’m + afraid. It’s only a step. But we ought to go at once.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe movements of + the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned away, she seemed + larger, more vigorous. “A reg’lar clipper, and built for all + kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I + wouldn’t be afraid to trust her anywheres. She’d reef down + quick in a blow.” He chuckled to himself. + </p> + <p> + She looked around. “Here we are.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + They had paused at the foot of a flight of stairs. Down the narrow + hall-way floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with drifting + strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn. + </p> + <p> + The old man looked at her inquiringly. “They hain’t begun?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “They’re tuning up.” + </p> + <p> + His face lifted a little. “I reckoned that couldn’t be the + beginnin’. But ye can’t al’ays tell. They make queer + noises sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.—I must leave you now.” She had ushered him into a + small hall. “I’m going to have you sit here, quite near the + platform, where I can see you.” She looked at him a little + anxiously. “You don’t need to stay if you don’t like it, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall like it fust-rate,” he responded. “It looks + like a real comf’tabul chair to set in.” + </p> + <p> + He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had + selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the + audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that + Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too classic for + him. She left him with a little murmur of apology. + </p> + <p> + A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses, fluttered + forward with a program. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took it in pleased fingers. He searched for his spectacles + and mounted them on his nose, staring at the printed lines. The audience + had settled down to attention. Amused glances traveled toward the big + figure absorbed in its program. Sergia had whispered a word here and there + as she left the room. It made its way back through the crowd—“A + friend of Mademoiselle Lvova’s—a sea-captain. She has brought + him to hear the MacDowell pieces.” The audience smiled and relaxed. + The music was beginning. Two young girls played a concerto from + Rubenstein, with scared, flying fingers. They were relieved when it was + done, and the audience clapped long and loud. Some one brought them + bunches of flowers—twin lilies, tied exactly alike, with long white + ribbons. Uncle William, his spectacles pushed up on the tufts of hair, + watched with admiring glance as they escaped from the stage. He turned to + his right-hand neighbor, an old gentleman with white hair and big, smooth, + soft hands, who had watched the performance with gentle care. + </p> + <p> + “Putty girls,” said Uncle William, cordially. + </p> + <p> + The man looked at him, smiling. “One of them is my granddaughter, + sir,” he responded affably. + </p> + <p> + She came from the door by the platform and sat down near her grandfather, + the lilies and the long white ribbons trailing from nervous fingers. Uncle + William leaned forward and smiled at her, nodding encouragement. + </p> + <p> + She replied with a quick, shy smile and fixed her eyes on the platform. + </p> + <p> + More pupils followed—young girls and old ones, and a youth with a + violin that fluttered and wailed and grew harmonious at last as the youth + forgot himself. Uncle William’s big, round face beamed upon him. + Sergia, watching him from behind the scenes, could see that he regarded + them all as nice children. He would have looked the same had they played + on jews’-harps and tin horns. But he was enjoying it. She was glad + of that. + </p> + <p> + She came out during the intermission to speak with him. “They’re + all through now,” she said encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + He looked down at his program bewildered, and a little disappointed, she + thought. “They got ’em all done?—I didn’t hear + that ’Wanderin’ Iceberg’ one,” he said + regretfully. “I cal’ated to listen to that. But I was so + interested in the children that I clean forgot.—They’re nice + children.” He looked about the room where they were laughing and + talking in groups. “Time to go, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. That was only the first half—the pupils’ half. + The rest is what I wanted you to hear—the sea-pieces and the others. + They are played by real musicians.” + </p> + <p> + “You goin’ to do one?” asked Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, one.” She smiled at him. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay.” He settled back comfortably. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right. I must go now and speak to some of the mothers. + They only come for the first half. They will be going home.” She + moved away. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eyes followed her admiringly. He turned to the old + gentleman beside him. “Nice girl,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “She is a fine teacher,” responded the old gentleman. “She + had not been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she?” Uncle William looked after her a little + quizzically. “Makes ’em stand around does she? You can’t + ever tell about temper. Sometimes it’s the quietest ones has the + wust. But she makes ’em work good. You can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she makes them work.” The old gentleman smiled upon him + kindly and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He + was receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle + William—a subtle tang—that he liked. It was a new flavor. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William studied his program. “Sounds more sensible’n + some of it.” He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. + “I can understand that, now, ’To an Old White Pine.’ + That’s interestin’. Now that one there.” He spelled out + the strange sounds slowly, “‘Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, + All-e-gro.’ Now mebbe <i>you</i> know what that means—<i>I</i> + don’t. But an ol’ white-pine tree—anybody can see that. + We don’t hev ’em up my way—pine-trees. But I like + ’em—al’ays did—al’ays set under ’em + when they’re handy. You don’t hev many round here?” + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman smiled. “No; there are not many old white pines in + New York. I can remember a few, as a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Can ye?—Right in the center here?” Uncle William was + interested. + </p> + <p> + “Well, not just here—a little out. But they’re gone.” + The old gentleman sighed. “MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can + hear the wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and + rubbing, and a still kind of light all around. It’s very nice.” + </p> + <p> + “Good poetry, I s’pose,” assented Uncle William. “I + don’t care so much for poetry myself. Some on it’s good,” + he added thoughtfully. “‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,’ + that swings off kind o’ nice, and ’Horatius at the Bridge.’ + But most on it has a kind o’ travelin’ round way with it—has + to go round by Robin Hood’s barn to get anywheres. I’m gen’ally + sort o’ drowsy whilst it’s bein’ read.” + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman had laughed out genially. “MacDowell doesn’t + write poetry, except short things—lines for headings. He makes it on + the piano.” + </p> + <p> + “Makes an old white-pine tree?” demanded Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Well—something like that.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned to his program. “There’ll be a ’water-lily,’ + then, will the’? and an ’eagle,’ and a ’medder + brook,’ and a ’wanderin’ iceberg,’ and a ’pair + o’ bars’?” He looked up with a soft twinkle. “And + like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I keep a-wonderin’ + what that wanderin’ iceberg’ll be like. I’ve <i>seen</i> + a wanderin’ iceberg,—leastways I’ve come mighty near + one,—but I ain’t ever <i>heard</i> it. You ever met a wanderin’ + iceberg?” His tone was friendly and solicitous. + </p> + <p> + The New York man shook his head. “Only the human kind.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William chuckled. “I’ve met that kind myself—and + the other kind, too.” He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed + itself. Sergia was seated at the piano. + </p> + <p> + It was a Beethoven number, a sonata. Uncle William apparently went to + sleep. Sergia, watching him, smiled gently. He must be very tired, poor + dear. The next number will keep him awake all right. It did. It was sung + by a famous baritone—“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest! + Yo ho! Yo ho!” Uncle William sat up. Joy radiated from him. He + clutched his chair with both hands and beamed. The audience laughed with + delight and clapped an encore. + </p> + <p> + “Goin’ to do it again, is he?” said Uncle William. + “Now that’s good of him, ain’t it? But I should think he’d + kind o’ like to. I’d like to do it myself if I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest!” rolled out the + voice. + </p> + <p> + “He gets the spirit of it,” said the old gentleman when the + song had ended and the applause had subsided. + </p> + <p> + “Jest so. I’ve been there myself—come within an ace o’ + havin’ <i>my</i> chest set on once. They was all fightin’ + drunk, too—jest like that. Gives ye the same kind o’ feelin’s—creepy + and shivery-like. What’s <i>he</i> goin’ to do?” A + long-haired youth had appeared on the platform. He approached the piano + and stood looking at it thoughtfully, his head a little to one side. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Flanders. He plays the MacDowell—the ’Wandering + Iceberg,’ you know.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m-m.” Uncle William took down his spectacles to look + at the youth through them. “You think he can do it all right? He ain’t + very hefty.” + </p> + <p> + The youth had seated himself. He struck a heavy, thundering chord on the + keys and subsided. His hands hung relaxed at his sides and his eyes were + fixed dreamily on the wall before him. + </p> + <p> + “Has he got her started?” It was a loud whisper from Uncle + William. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William waited patiently. There was a gentle trickle on the keys—and + another. Then a pause and more trickles—then some galloping notes, + with heavy work in the bass. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked interested. “She’s gettin’ under + way, like enough. + </p> + <p> + “Sh-h!” The old gentleman held up a hand. + </p> + <p> + There were some long, flowing lines and a swirling sound that might have + been water, and low growls in the bass, and a general rumbling and + gritting and sliding and tumbling among the notes. The sounds stopped + altogether. The youth sat staring before him. Applause broke from the + audience. The youth got up and left the platform. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William stared after him with open mouth. “Has he got her + done?” He turned to the man at his side. + </p> + <p> + “All done. How did you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well”—Uncle William squinted thoughtfully at his + program—“I thought I was goin’ to like it fust-rate—if + he’d got to it.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t get there, then?” The man laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Not to the iceberg.” Uncle William shook his head. A kindly + look grew in his face. “I dunno’s he’s so much to blame, + though. An iceberg must be kind o’ hard to do, I should think + likely.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> should think it might be. Music isn’t cold enough.” + </p> + <p> + “‘T ain’t the cold,” said Uncle William, hastily. + “I run acrost an iceberg once. We was skirmishin’ round up + North, in a kind o’ white fog, frosty-like, and cold—cold as + blazes; and all of a sudden we was on her—close by her, somewheres, + behind the frost. We wa’n’t cold any more. It was about the + hottest time I ever knew,” he said thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “What happened?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William roused himself. “Well, after a spell we knew she wa’n’t + there any more, and we cooled down some. But we wa’n’t real + cold—not for much as a day or so.” + </p> + <p> + The youth had returned to the piano. The audience met him with wild + applause, half-way, and he bowed solemnly from his hips. There was a weary + look in his face. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked him over critically. “He don’t more’n + half like it, does he?” + </p> + <p> + The other man coughed a little. Then he laughed out. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William smiled genially. “I’ve seen his kind—a + good many times. Looks as if they was goin’ to cry when you was + feedin’ ’em sugar. They gen’ally like it real well, too.” + He consulted his program. “Goin’ to do a hammock, is he?” + </p> + <p> + The hammock began to sway, and Uncle William’s big head rocked + softly in time to it. “Some like it,” he said when it was + done; “not enough to make you sea-sick—jest easy swingin’.” + </p> + <p> + The youth had not left the piano. He played “The Bars at Sunset,” + and “A Water Lily,” and “The Eagle,” and then the + two sea pieces. Uncle William listened with mild attention. + </p> + <p> + When it was over and the audience had begun to disperse, Sergia came out. + She approached Uncle William, scanning his face. “How did you like + it?” + </p> + <p> + “They all done?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Did you like the sea pieces?” + </p> + <p> + “I liked ’em. Yes—I liked ’em.” Uncle + William’s tone was moderate. + </p> + <p> + Sergia was smiling at him a little. “The ’Depths of the Ocean’—you + liked that best, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked guilty. “I knew you was goin’ to ask me + about that one,” he said, “and I’d meant to listen hard—real + hard—to it. I hain’t ever been quite so far down as that, but + I thought mebbe I could gauge it. But you see,”—his tone grew + confidential and a little apologetic,—“when they got that far + along, I couldn’t really tell which was which. I wa’n’t + <i>plumb</i> sure whether it was the eagle he was doin’ or the dep’hs, + and it mixed me up some. I didn’t jest know whether to soar up aloft + or dive considabul deep. It kep’ me kind o’ teeterin’ + betwixt and between—” He looked at her appealingly, yet with a + little twinkle somewhere below. + </p> + <p> + “I see.” Sergia’s face was dancing. “The names <i>do</i> + help.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it,” said Uncle William, gallantly. “If he’d + ’a’ read off the names, or stopped quite a spell between the + pieces, I’d ’a’ done fust-rate. He was playin’ + ’em nice. I could see the folks liked ’em.” He smiled at + her kindly. + </p> + <p> + Sergia smiled back. “Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they + understand him—when they know which it is.” Her smile had + grown frank, like a boy’s. “But which did you like best of + all?” + </p> + <p> + “Of the hull thing?” he demanded. He looked down at the + program. “They was all nice,” he said slowly—“real + nice. I dunno when I’ve heard nicer singin’ ’n playin’. + But I reckon that one was about the nicest of the lot.” He laid his + big thumb on a number. + </p> + <p> + Sergia and the old gentleman bent to look. It was the Beethoven sonata. + </p> + <p> + Sergia glanced at the old gentleman. He met the glance, smiling. “A + tribute to our hostess,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A tribute to Beethoven,” returned Sergia. Then, after a + moment, she laughed softly. Sergia was not addicted to MacDowell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was + sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the + lock. “That’s good,” said Uncle William. He had slipped + off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and + stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow + eyes. “He’ll perk considabul when he hears about them picters,” + said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his + great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming—Sergia?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t + seem to remember ’t she said so.” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>did</i> she say?” The tone was imperative. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that—as + well as I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you tell her I wanted to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I told her that.” Uncle William’s voice was + impartial. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I’d + hurry up and get well so ’s to go see <i>her</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s face had grown hard. “I shall not go until I can + carry her the money in my hand—all that I owe her.” + </p> + <p> + “Is ’t a good deal?” asked Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + But the artist had turned his face to the wall. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate justice. + “If I was you—” + </p> + <p> + A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, + reaching out a hand. “What is it? Give it to me.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William examined the lines slowly. “Why, it seems to be for + me,” he said kindly. “I dunno anybody that’d be writin’ + to me.” + </p> + <p> + He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice and + shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + The artist had sunk back, indifferent. + </p> + <p> + “Why!” The paper rustled in Uncle William’s hand. He + looked up. “She’s gone!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The artist started up, glaring at him. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. “Like as not + we sha’n’t see her again, ever.” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s hand groped. “What is it?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone—left in the night.” + </p> + <p> + “She will come back.” The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of + sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her + like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.” + </p> + <p> + The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his + stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking + about?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out + the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took + to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I + guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little. + </p> + <p> + The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. + “You were talking about <i>her</i>?” The words were a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Didn’t you hear + me say so?” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. “I thought you meant—Sergia.” + </p> + <p> + “Sergia!—What!” Uncle William looked down at the letter. + A light dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle + sounded somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. + “You thought I meant—her!” Uncle William’s sides + shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia didn’t run away. She’ll + stan’ by till the last man’s hung. She’s that kind.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” The tone was jealous. “I ought to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you ought to know.” Uncle William left the moral to take + care of itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about + the room, giving things what he called “a lick and a promise.” + </p> + <p> + “You were late last night,” said the artist, watching him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, considabul late,” said Uncle William. He had come upon + another pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was + brushing it up, whistling softly. “You must ’a’ smoked a + good deal,” he said, rapping out the ashes. “I’ve been + sweepin’ ’em up ever since I come.” + </p> + <p> + “I did. It helped me forget.” + </p> + <p> + “It didn’t help you get well, I reckon,” said Uncle + William. “What you need,” he added, “is fresh air and + wind—and rocks.” + </p> + <p> + The artist mused. “It would seem good.” + </p> + <p> + The old man had paused in his work. “Will you go—to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked about him, hesitating. “I couldn’t get ready—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I’ll</i> get ye ready.” + </p> + <p> + “We might—in a week?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I’ve + got to look up Juno. She’ll like enough get desperate—drown + herself the first thing I know. <i>I’m</i> goin’ to start + to-morrow. If you want to go along, I’ll pack ye up.” + </p> + <p> + The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along + without you. You know I need you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know you need me,” said Uncle William. “I kind o’ + counted on that.” He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then + out of the dust and clatter to beam on the young man. “Now, don’t + you worry a mite. You’re goin’ to get well and earn money and + come back and pay her, and everything’s comin’ out all right.” + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with them, + asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The artist + looked at the tickets a little enviously. “I should like to go, + myself,” he said. “It’s the first view.” He + glanced at Uncle William appealingly. + </p> + <p> + The old man ignored it. “You couldn’t go, noways,” he + said; “not if we’re goin’ to start to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The artist sighed. He was sitting in an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket, a + pillow behind his head. “I don’t suppose I could.” He + sighed again. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him keenly. “The’ ’s a good deal + of leg-work to an exhibit, ain’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The artist smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. Well, it’s all <i>you</i> + can do to set in a chair with a piller behind you. I wouldn’t say no + more about picters if I was you.” He took down the mirror and laid + it between two cushions, holding it in place while he reached for the + knot. “I don’t suppose you have the least idee how you look,” + he said. “I cal’ate to have you look a sight better’n + that ’fore Sergia sees you.” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s face flushed. “Give me the glass.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “I’ve got to hustle to get these + things done.” He drew the sailor’s knot firmly in place. + “I cal’ate to have everything ready so ’s to get an + early start.” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn’t mind how I looked,” said the young man, + defensively. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe not.” Uncle William was gathering together the trifles + from the shelf and table, and knotting them in a table-spread. “You + want to save this out?” he asked indifferently. It was a picture of + the girl in an oval frame. + </p> + <p> + The young man seized it. He was looking at it with warm eyes. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced down on them from his height. “Mebbe not,” + he said gently, “but I reckon she’d hate to see ye lookin’ + like that. It’s about all I can stan’ to see ye, myself.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> + <p> + The girl looked up from her copying. Uncle William stood in the doorway, + beaming on her. She got up quickly. “You are early.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William held out a hand detainingly. “You set right down and + go to work. I come early a-purpose. I thought I’d like to set a + spell and watch ye.” + </p> + <p> + The girl resumed her copying. The lamp beside her shed its dull glow on + the page, and on her face and neck, as she bent to it. The dark room rose + mysteriously behind her. Uncle William settled himself in his chair with a + breath of relief. + </p> + <p> + When she had finished the copying she came across to him. “It is + done now.” She smiled to him through the dim light. + </p> + <p> + “Keeps you workin’ pretty steady, don’t it?” said + Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” There was no complaint in the word. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I reckoned I’d find you doin’ it. + That’s why I come early. I kind o’ wanted a chance to set—where + ’t was quiet and things wa’n’t worryin’.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward. “Is he worse?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not worse, so to speak, but kind o’ triflin’—wanting + his own way a good deal. If I was home, I wouldn’t mind it a mite. I’d + go outdoor and take two-three good whiffs, look at the water and see how + things was comin’ on. I’d be all right in no time. But here—” + He drew a kind of caged breath. “It’s worse <i>out</i>door + ’n ’t is <i>in</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You mind the noise, don’t you?” She was looking at him + sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “Well, ’t ain’t the noise so much,—I’ve + heard the ocean roar,—it’s folks. Pesters me havin’ + ’em round—so many on ’em.” + </p> + <p> + Her look changed to a little wonder. “I should think you would like + to be with them. You help them.” She spoke the words softly, almost + shyly. The clear glow of her eyes rested on his face. + </p> + <p> + The face showed no pride. “Yes, I reckon I help ’em—some. + There’s gen’ally suthin’ to do, if you’re where + folks be; but I have to get away from ’em. Can’t breathe if I + don’t. And there ain’t any place to go to. I was feelin’ + a good deal cooped up to-night, and then I thought o’ your place + here.” He moved his hand toward the dark recesses. “It’s + kind o’ clean and high.” + </p> + <p> + They sat in silence, the girl’s head resting on her hand. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched her face in the half-light. “You’re + gettin’ tired and kind o’ peaked.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up. “I am resting.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, I know how it is. You stan’ all you can and + byme-by you come to a place you can rest in, and you jest rest—hard.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to ’a’ asked somebody to help ye,” said + Uncle William, gently. + </p> + <p> + “There wasn’t any one.” + </p> + <p> + “There was me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I <i>did</i> ask you when I couldn’t go on.” + </p> + <p> + “That wa’n’t the way. Somebody would ’a’ + helped—your folks, like enough—” He stopped, + remembering. + </p> + <p> + “They are dead.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “I know. He told me. But I’d forgot—for a + minute. They been dead long?” + </p> + <p> + “Two years. It was before I came away—at home, in Russia. We + were all coming—father and mother and I, and my brother. Then they + died; but I wanted to be free.” She had flung out her arms with a + light movement. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a dretful good place to get away from,” said Uncle + William. “Nice folks come from there, too. I never saw one that wa’n’t + glad to come,” he added. + </p> + <p> + She smiled. “I was glad; and I am glad I came here. It has been hard—a + little—but I found Alan.” Her voice sang. + </p> + <p> + “Some folks would say that was the wust of it,” said Uncle + William. “You found him and he fell sick, and you had him to take + care on—cross as two sticks some of the time.” He regarded her + mildly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> don’t think so,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mebbe not, mebbe not,” responded Uncle William. “I’m + sort o’ queer, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + She had turned to him half wistfully. “Don’t you think I might + see him—just a little while?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “You’ve been too good to him. + That’s the wust of wimmen folks. What he needs now is a tonic—suthin’ + kind o’ bitter.” He chuckled. “He’s got me.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. “When are you going to take him away?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She started. “It is very soon,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Sooner the better,” said Uncle William. “It’ll do + us both good to smell the sea.” He pulled out the great watch. + “Must be ’most time to be startin’.” He peered at + it uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we must go.” She rose and brought her hat, a fragile + thing of lace and mist, and a little lace mantle with long floating ends. + She put them on before the mirror that hung above the table where the + copying lay, giving little turns and touches of feminine pleasure. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eyes followed her good-humoredly. + </p> + <p> + She turned to him, her face glowing, starlike, out of the lace and mist. + “You’re laughing at me,” she said, reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wa’n’t laughing, so to speak,” returned + Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ what a sight o’ comfort + there is in a bunnit. If men folks wore ’em I reckon they’d + take life easier.” He placed his hat firmly on the gray tufts. + “That’s one o’ the cur’us things—about + ’em.” They were going down the long flight of stairs and he + had placed his hand protectingly beneath her arm. “That’s one + o’ the cur’us things—how different they be, men and + women. I’ve thought about it a good many times, how it must ’a’ + tickled the Lord a good deal when he found how different they turned out—made + o’ the same kind o’ stuff, so.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you suppose he meant it?” She was smiling under + the frilling lace. + </p> + <p> + “Well, like enough,” returned Uncle William, thoughtfully. + “It’s like the rest o’ the world—kind o’ + comical and big. Like enough he did plan it that way.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <p> + The room was filled with the hum of light—faces and flowers and + color everywhere. Uncle William walked among them erect, overtopping the + crowd, his gaze, for the most part, on the sky-line. Sergia, beside him, + seemed a slight figure. Glances followed them as they went, amused or + curious or a little admiring. Uncle William, oblivious to the glances and + to the crowd that opened before him, and closed silently behind the great + figure, beamed upon it all. He was used to making his way through a crowd + unhindered. To Sergia the experience was more novel, and she watched the + crowd and the pictures and the old man moving serene among them, with + amused eyes. Once she called his attention to a celebrated painter in the + crowd. Uncle William’s eye rested impartially upon him for a moment + and returned to its sky-line. “He looks to me kind o’ pindlin’. + One o’ the best, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not strong, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not strong, and not much <i>to</i> him—as if the Lord + was kind o’ skimped for material. Is that one o’ <i>his</i> + picters?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes followed his hand. “Alan’s! Come.” They moved + quickly to it across the larger room. “They are all here.” Her + glance had swept the walls. “In the best light, too.” She + moved eagerly from one to the other. “See how well they are hung.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eye surveyed them. “Middlin’ plumb,” + he assented. “That fu’ther one looks to me a leetle mite off + the level. It’s the one o’ my house, too.” He moved + toward it and straightened the frame with careful hand, then he stepped + back, gazing at it with pride. “Putty good, ain’t it?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + She smiled, quietly. “Perfect. He has never done anything so good.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> a putty nice house,” said Uncle William. His eye + dwelt on it fondly. “I’d a’most forgot how nice it was. + You see that little cloud there—that one jest over the edge? That + means suthin’ ’fore mornin’.” He lifted his hand + to it. “I wouldn’t trust a sky like that—not without + reefin’ down good.” He drew a breath. “Cur’us how + it makes you feel right there!” he said. “I’d a’most + forgot.” He glanced at the moving crowd a little hostilely and drew + another deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “The atmosphere <i>is</i> fine,” said the girl. She was + studying it with half-shut eyes, her head thrown a little back. “It + is clear and deep. You can almost breathe it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a good climate,” assented Uncle William. “You + couldn’t get sick there if you tried. Can’t hardly die.” + He chuckled a little. “Sam’l Gruchy’s been tryin’ + for six year now. He was ninety-seven last month. We don’t think + nuthin’ o’ roundin’ out a hunderd up there—not the + cheerful ones. ’Course if you fret, you can die ’most + anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you fret.” The girl was looking at him with pleased + eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever known what it was to + fret?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Lord, yes! I ust to fret about everything—fretted for + fear it would blow and for fear it wouldn’t blow.” His eyes + were on the shifting green waves. “I never put down a net nor a + lobster-pot that I didn’t see ’em bein’ chewed up or + knocked to pieces. I’d see a shark a-swimmin’ right through a + big hole—rip-p—tear. I could see it as plain as if I was down + there under the water—all kind o’ green and cool, and things + swimmin’ through it. I can see it jest the same now if I shut my + eyes, only it’s fishes I see swimmin’ into my net now—shoals + of ’em. The’ ain’t a shark in sight.” He was + looking down at her, smiling. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “You’re an optimist now.” + </p> + <p> + He stared a little. “No, I don’t reckon I’m anything + that sounds like that, but I <i>do</i> take life comf’tabul. The’ + ain’t a place anywheres ’round to set and rest, is the’? + You look to me kind o’ used up.” + </p> + <p> + “I am tired—a little. Come. There won’t be any one here.” + She led the way into a small room beyond. A bench facing the large room + was vacant, and they sat down on it. Through the vista of the open door + they could see two of Alan’s pictures. They sat in silence for a few + minutes, watching the crowd come and go in front of the pictures. She + turned to him at last with a little smile. “They are making a hit,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “Be they?” He peered at them intently. His face softened. + “They’d o’t to. They’re nice picters.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” She had started forward a little, her breath coming + swiftly. “Do you see that man—the tall one with the gray hair + and pointed beard?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William adjusted his spectacles. “That kind o’ peaked + one, you mean, that dips along some like a government lighter?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed out, her hands moving with little gestures of pleasure. + “That’s the one. I know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” Uncle William looked at him again politely. “He + has a good deal o’ trimmin’ on, but he looks like a nice sort + o’ man.” + </p> + <p> + “He is—he is—if he’s the one I think—” + </p> + <p> + The man, who wore on his coat the decoration of several orders, had turned + a little and was looking back over the crowd. + </p> + <p> + The girl clasped her hands tightly. “Oh, it <i>is</i>,” she + said under her breath. “It is.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked down almost jealously. “You set a good deal o’ + store by seein’ him,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t that. I like him, yes, but he knows good work. If he + really takes them in, he’ll not let them go.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William adjusted his spectacles again. “You mean—” + </p> + <p> + “He will buy them, yes. Hush!” She held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + The man had turned back to the pictures. He lifted a pair of eyeglasses + that swung at the end of a long chain and placed them on his nose. He + looked again at the picture before him. The glasses dropped from his nose, + and he dipped to the catalogue he held in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s glance followed him a little uneasily. “You + mean he’ll buy my house?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She nodded, her face overflowing with happiness. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William surveyed it. “I was cal’atin’ to have that + one myself.” He said it almost grudgingly. + </p> + <p> + “You were? Could you?” she faced him. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t I have it as well as him?” He nodded toward + the man in the distance intent on his catalogue. + </p> + <p> + The girl’s brow wrinkled a little. “He is rich,” she + said. “I didn’t know—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I ain’t rich,” said Uncle William, “but I + reckon I could scrape together enough to pay for a picter.” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s face lighted. “Of course, Alan would rather you had + it. And he may buy one of the others.” + </p> + <p> + The man had moved on a little, out of sight. The picture remained facing + them. For a minute the crowd had parted in front of it and they saw it at + the end of a long pathway. Uncle William drew a proud breath. “How + much will it cost?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She took up the catalogue from her lap and opened it, glancing down the + page. “It must be here—somewhere. Yes, this is it—‘The + House on the Rocks,’ $2000.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s jaw clicked a little as it came together. He held + out a hand. “Will you jest let me look at that a minute?” he + said. + </p> + <p> + He ran his great finger down the page. When it came to the $2000, he + pressed it a little with his thumb, as if expecting it to rub off. Then he + looked at her, shaking his head. “It’s a leetle higher’n + I can go,” he said slowly. “I wa’n’t expectin’ + it would cost so much. You see, the house itself didn’t cost more’n + three hunderd, all told, and I thought a picter of it wouldn’t cost + more’n five or six.” + </p> + <p> + “Five or six hundred?” Her eyes laughed. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head guiltily. “Not more’n five or six + dollars,” he said. “I reckon mebbe I <i>did</i> put it a + leetle low.” A smile had bloomed again in his face. “If he can + pay the price, he’ll have to have it, I reckon—for all o’ + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he can pay it. He is very rich, and he cares for pictures. He + has hundreds. He buys them everywhere—in Paris, London, St. + Petersburg, Italy—It only depends on whether he likes—” + </p> + <p> + The man had come into view again and was studying the picture, dipping + toward it in little sidewise flights. Uncle William watched the pantomime + jealously. “How’d you come to know him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He knew my mother. He had known her from a girl. I think he loved + her,” she said quietly, her eyes on the man. “He was on the + legation at St. Petersburg—See! He <i>does</i> like them!” She + had leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced up. + </p> + <p> + The man was standing a little removed from the painting, his arms folded, + his head thrown back, oblivious to the crowd. + </p> + <p> + She rose quickly. “I am going to speak to him,” she said. + “Wait here for me.” She passed into the changing throng that + filled the room beyond. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William waited patiently, his eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope + of the doorway. When she reappeared in it, her face was alight with color. + “Come.” She held out her hand. “I want you to meet him. + He likes them—oh, very much!” She pressed her hands together + lightly. “I think he will buy them—two, at least.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William got to his feet. “I s’pose ye told him about + Alan and about my place.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped short, looking at him reproachfully. “Not a word,” + she said—“not a single word!” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s countenance fell. “Wa’n’t that + what you went out for?” + </p> + <p> + “No; and you must not mention it. I only told him that you liked + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I even say that’s my house out there?” He + waved his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Never!” It was energetic. “You would spoil it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it hurt it any to be my house?” he asked, a little sore. + </p> + <p> + “You know it is not that.” She laid her hand on his arm + affectionately. “We shall tell him all about it some day; but now, + just now, while he is making up his mind, it would distract him. He wants + to look at them as art.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William sighed gently. “Well, I’ll do my best, but it’s + goin’ agen’ nature not to bust right out with it.” They + passed into the larger room. On the opposite side the man was standing, + his eyeglasses on his nose, looking expectantly toward the door. + </p> + <p> + When he saw them, he smiled and moved forward with suave grace. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <p> + They met midway in the room. The two tall men stood facing each other, + overtopping the crowd. The Frenchman held out his hand. “I am glad + to meet you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took the thin hand in his hearty one. “I am glad to + meet <i>you</i>,” he responded. “Sergia’s been tellin’ + me about you. She said you liked the picter over yonder.” Uncle + William’s thumb described the arc of a circle. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman’s eye followed it. “I do,” he said, + cordially. “Don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s middlin’ good.” Uncle William spoke + craftily. They were moving toward it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s great!” said the Frenchman. He swung his + eyeglasses to his nose and gazed at it. They came to a standstill a little + distance away. + </p> + <p> + “The house ain’t much to boast on,” said Uncle William, + modestly. + </p> + <p> + “The house?” The Frenchman stared at him politely. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William motioned with his hand. “It’s a kind o’ + ramshackle ol’ thing—no chimbley to speak of—” + </p> + <p> + The man’s face cleared. “Oh, the house—a mere hut!” + He dismissed it with a wave. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face wore a subdued look. “It might be comf’tabul + inside,” he hazarded after a silence. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman stared again. “Comfortable? Oh, without doubt.” + He granted the point in passing. “But the color in the rocks—do + you see?—and the clear light and the sky—you see how it lifts + itself!” His long finger made swift stabs here and there at the + canvas. A little crowd had gathered near. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pushed his spectacles farther up on the tufts. His face + glowed. “The sky is all right,” he said, “if ye know how + to take it; but ye wouldn’t trust a sky like that, would ye?” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman turned to him, blinking a little. His glasses had slipped + from his nose. They hung dangling from the end of the long chain. “Trust + it?” he said vaguely. “It’s the real thing!” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face assumed an air of explanation. “It’s + good as far as it goes. The’ ain’t anything the matter with it—not + anything you can lay your finger on—not till you get over there, a + little east by sou’east. Don’t you see anything the matter + over there?” He asked the question with cordial interest. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman held the eyeglass chain in his fingers. He swung the glasses + to his nose and stared at the spot indicated. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William regarded him hopefully. + </p> + <p> + The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. “I’m + afraid I don’t see it.” He spoke in polite deprecation. + “It seems to me very nearly perfect.” He faced it again. + “I can breathe that air.” + </p> + <p> + “So can I,” said Uncle William. “So can I.” + </p> + <p> + They stood looking at it in silence. “It’ll be fo’-five + hours before it strikes,” said Uncle William, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Before it—” The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt + look in his face wrinkled a little. + </p> + <p> + “Before it strikes,” repeated Uncle William. “That cloud + I p’inted out to you means business.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his eyes. + He turned them on Uncle William. “I see. You were speaking of the + weather?” + </p> + <p> + “Wa’n’t you?” demanded Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Well—partly. Yes, partly. But I’m afraid I was thinking + how well it is done.” His face grew dreamy. “To think that + paint and canvas and a few careless strokes—” + </p> + <p> + “He worked putty hard,” broke in Uncle William. Sergia’s + hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his + blunder. + </p> + <p> + But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a + cordial nod. “Of course—infinite patience. And then a thing + like that!” he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of + courteous salute—the obeisance due to royalty. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. “They’re putty + good rocks,” he said—“without paint.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman faced him. “Don’t I know?” He checked + himself. “I’ve not mentioned it to you, but I was born and + brought up on those rocks.” + </p> + <p> + “You was!” Uncle William confronted him. + </p> + <p> + The stranger nodded, smiling affably. His long nose was reminiscent. + “I’ve played there many a time.” + </p> + <p> + Sergia’s face watched him hopefully. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s had grown a little stern. He bent toward the + stranger. “I don’t think I jest caught your name,” he + said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Curie,” said the man, politely—“Benjamin + F. Curie.” He extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to + Uncle William with a deep bow. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He drew down + the spectacles from his tufts and examined it carefully. Then he bent and + snapped it in his fingers. “I don’t know no such—” + </p> + <p> + A hand was laid lightly on his arm. “Come, we must look at the other + pictures. It is almost time to go.” + </p> + <p> + The crowd had thinned a little and they walked through it easily, three + abreast. But Uncle William had moved to the other side of the girl, as far + away from the Frenchman as he could get. Now and then he cast a glance of + disapproval at the tall, dipping figure as it bent to the girl or lifted + itself to gaze at some picture. There was distrust in Uncle William’s + glance, mingled with vague disturbance. When they paused again, he moved + around in front of the man. “The’ ’s suthin’ kind + o’ familiar about your face—” he began. + </p> + <p> + Sergia’s hand was again on his arm. + </p> + <p> + He patted it lightly. “Don’t you worry a mite, Sergia. I ain’t + goin’ to say anything rash. But it does seem to me as if I’ve + seen Mr. Curie’s face somewheres or other. ’T ain’t a + face you’re liable to forget.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. “It is possible we have + met. You have traveled?” + </p> + <p> + “A leetle,” admitted Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + Sergia’s face relaxed. She moved away for a minute. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman nodded. “We have doubtless met; but one forgets—” + He lifted his eyeglasses and surveyed Uncle William’s round, good + face. “It doesn’t seem as if I could have forgotten yours,” + he said thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t place it.” + </p> + <p> + Sergia had returned. “He has been to St. Petersburg,” she + suggested. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman’s look cleared. “Ah—! It must have been + there. It is a privilege to have met you again, sir.” He held out + his long, slim hand. “I wish you would come and see me. You have my + address.” He motioned to the card. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked down at it. “I’m startin’ for home + to-morrow,” he said dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! And your home is—” + </p> + <p> + Sergia interposed a graceful hand. “Good-night, M. Curie. <i>You</i> + will come and see <i>me</i>. Mama would be glad I have found you again.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down at her mistily. His gaze lingered on her face. “I + shall come, my child,” he said gallantly, almost tenderly. “I + shall come many times.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure.” She took Uncle William’s + arm and moved away to the staircase. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s mouth opened and closed once or twice with a little + puff. When they reached the foot of the stairs he broke out. “He + says he’s a Curie.” He flipped the card in his hand. “I’ve + known Arichat, man and boy, for sixty year. The’ wa’n’t + never any Curies there.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him a little perplexed. “Couldn’t you have + forgotten?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “I wish ’t I had. You set a good + deal o’ store by him, I can see. But I ain’t likely to forget + anybody that’s been brought up there. The’ <i>was</i> suthin’ + kind o’ familiar about him, too.” He said it almost irascibly. + </p> + <p> + The girl sighed softly. “Well, he may have been romancing. Frenchmen + do—at times—” + </p> + <p> + “I call it lying,” snorted Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” She patted his arm. “But can’t you + understand how you would feel if you saw something beautiful—some + place that made you feel the way you used to feel when you were a child? + You might think for a moment that you had really been there, and say it—without + meaning to tell a lie. That’s what I meant.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. “You do put that mighty + nice, don’t you? You ’most make me believe I could do it, and + I guess mebbe I could. But Andy couldn’t,” he added, with + conviction. + </p> + <p> + The girl followed her thought. “And what does it matter—if he + buys the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it matters some,” said Uncle William, slowly. “I + dunno ’s I want a liar, not a real liar, ownin’ a picter o’ + my house. But if he jest romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem + different somehow.” + </p> + <p> + When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. “I should + like to see him again,” she said, waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Like enough,” said Uncle William, gently—“like + enough. But I reckon he don’t need you just now.” He held her + hand, looking down at her kindly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> could see <i>him</i>,” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “How’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “I could come down to the boat. I would be careful not to let him + see me.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William considered it. “Well, I dunno ’s that would do + any harm—if you’re sure you could keep out o’ the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “We’re goin’ by the Halifax boat,” said Uncle + William. “I can make better ’rangements that way. I know the + captain.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” It was a question. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess ’t you can come. Good night, my dear.” He + bent and kissed her gravely. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes followed the tall figure till it loomed away in the dark. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <p> + The boat eased away from the wharf. The invalid on deck gazed back at the + city. A little spot of red lay in the hollow of either cheek. Uncle + William hovered about, adjusting pillows and rugs. Now and then his eye + dropped to the wharf and picked out, casually, a figure that moved in the + crowd. “There—that’s a leetle mite easier, ain’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + The young man nodded almost fretfully. “I’m all right, Uncle + William. Don’t you fuss any more.” He leaned forward, looking + toward the wharf. “Who is that?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and peered. “I don’t + seem to see anybody,” he said truthfully. He was gazing with some + painstaking in the opposite direction. + </p> + <p> + “Not there. Look!—She’s gone!” He sank back with a + sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody you knew, like enough?” The question was + indifferent. + </p> + <p> + “I thought it was—her.” + </p> + <p> + “She, now! She wouldn’t be likely to be down here this time o’ + day.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not. It was just a fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all. You comf’tabul?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” a little impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “That’s good. Now we’re off.” Uncle William beamed + on the water that billowed before and behind. He went off to find the + captain. + </p> + <p> + When he came back, the young man had ceased to look toward the shore. + “I made a mistake,” he said regretfully. + </p> + <p> + “That’s nateral,” said Uncle William. “I s’pose + you’ve been thinkin’ of her, off and on, and you jest thought + you saw her. I wouldn’t think any—” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t that,” the young man broke in. “I <i>did</i> + see her. I know now. I saw her face for a minute as plain as I see yours. + She was looking straight at me and I saw all of a sudden what a fool I + was.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re getting better,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? I was afraid—” he hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You thought mebbe you was a-goin’ to die?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I have heard that people see clearly—It came over + me in a flash so—” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no!” Uncle William chuckled. “You’re jest + gettin’ your wits back, that’s all. I shouldn’t wonder + if you’d be real pert by the time we get there. I cal’ate you’ll + be considabul help to me—dish-washin’ an’ so on.” + </p> + <p> + The towers and chimneys behind them dwindled. The smoke of the city faded + to a blur and grew to clear azure. The wind blew against their faces. + After a little the young man got to his feet. “I’m going to + walk awhile.” He spoke defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Walk right along,” said Uncle William, cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + He tottered a few steps, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William chuckled. “I reckoned you’d want a lift.” + He placed a strong hand under the young man’s arm. They paced back + and forth the length of the deck. “Feel good?” asked Uncle + William. + </p> + <p> + The young man nodded. “I shall go alone to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I reckon you will,” soothingly. “And the further + north we get, the better you’ll feel. It’s cur’us about + the North. The’ ’s suthin’ up there keeps drawin’ + you like a needle. I’ve known a man to be cured jut by turnin’ + and sailin’ that way when he was sick. Seem ’s if he stopped + pullin’ against things and just let go. You look to me a little mite + tired. I’d go below for a spell if I was you.” + </p> + <p> + The young man went below and slept. When he woke he felt better, as Uncle + William had predicted. At Halifax he insisted on sending a telegram to + Sergia. After that he watched the water with gleaming face, and when they + boarded the <i>John L. Cann</i> and the shores of Arichat shaped + themselves out of space, he was like a boy. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William leaned forward, scanning the wharf. “There’s + Andy!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Right there. Don’t you see him—dangling his legs over + the edge?” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Andy!” The young man’s voice had a joyous note. + </p> + <p> + Andy grunted. + </p> + <p> + When they landed, he held out a limp hand. “Got any duds?” he + asked indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “There’s my box and hisn and some traps down below. He’s + gone down to look after ’em,” said Uncle William. “Juno + come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope.” + </p> + <p> + The young man appeared on deck with his hand-bag. “How are you, + Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Andy nodded. + </p> + <p> + “He says she ain’t come back,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Juno. She must ’a’ been gone as much as a week, ain’t + she, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Two weeks last night,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Tuh-tuh!” Uncle William’s tongue expressed concern. + “We’ll hev to go look for her. You goin’ to row us up?” + </p> + <p> + “Guess so,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “I thought ye’d want to. Set right there, Mr. Woodworth. Don’t + you mind bein’ in the way. Andy’s used to it.” + </p> + <p> + They rowed up through the clear light. The harbor stretched away, + gleaming, to darkness. The cliffs rose on the right, somber and waiting. + Uncle William lifted his face. The little house on the cliff caught a + gleam and twinkled. The boat grated on the beach. There was a stiff climb + up the path, with long pauses for breath. Uncle William opened the door. + He moved back swiftly. A gray avalanche had descended upon him. She clawed + at his shoulder and perched there, looking down at him. + </p> + <p> + A smile overspread Uncle William’s face. He put up a hand to the + gray fur, stroking it. “Now, don’t that beat all!” he + said. “She’s been here all along, like enough, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Durned if I know,” said Andy. He looked at her aggressively. + “I hain’t seen hide nor hair of her for two weeks.” + </p> + <p> + Juno returned the look, purring indifferently. She leaped from Uncle + William’s shoulder, leading the way into the house, her back arched + and her tail erect; her toes scarcely touched the boards she trod upon. + </p> + <p> + She disappeared under the red lounge. In a moment her head reappeared—with + something dangling from the mouth. She laid it proudly at Uncle William’s + feet. + </p> + <p> + He peered at it. “Ketched a mouse, hev ye? I reckoned she wouldn’t + starve, Andy!” He beamed on him. + </p> + <p> + “That ain’t a mouse,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Why, so ’t ain’t. Juno!” Uncle William’s + voice was stern. “You come here!” + </p> + <p> + Juno came—with another. She laid it at his feet and departed for a + third. By the time the fifth was deposited before him, Uncle William said + feebly: “That’s enough for this time, Juno. Don’t you do + no more.” + </p> + <p> + She added one more to the wriggling row, and seated herself calmly beside + it, looking up for approval. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glared at her for a minute. Then a sunny smile broke his + face. “That’s all right, Juno.” He bent and stroked the + impassive head. “I was prepared to mourn for ye, if need be, but not + to rejoice—not to this extent. But it’s all right.” Juno + purred in proud content. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <p> + It was fortunate that the artist was better, for Uncle William became lost + in the kittens and their welfare. The weakest thing at hand claimed his + interest. He carried them in a clam-basket from point to point, seeing the + best spots for their comfort and development. Juno marched at his side, + proud and happy. She purred approval of the universe and the ways of man. + Wherever Uncle William deposited the basket, she took up her abode, + serenely pleased; and when, a few hours later, he shifted it on account of + wind or rain or sun, she followed without demur. For her the sun rose and + set in Uncle William’s round face and the depths of the clam-basket. + </p> + <p> + The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected Uncle + William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon them, and + the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> still swung at anchor alone at the foot of the + cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat, Uncle + William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his clam-basket. + The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the scant chance + of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began to paint, urged + by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some time. When he saw + that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work took his mind off + himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy, coming upon him one day on + the beach, looked at his brown face almost in disapproval. “You’re + a-feelin’ putty well, ain’t you?” he said grudgingly. + </p> + <p> + “I am,” responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his + palette. A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and + then looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he + brought it out quickly. “You’re a rich man, aren’t you, + Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. “I + dunno’s I be,” he said slowly. “I’ve got money—some. + But it takes a pile to live on.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. + “You and Uncle William are pretty good friends, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Good enough,” replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely. + </p> + <p> + The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. “He misses his boat a + good deal.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” snapped Andy. His green eye glowered at the + bay. “Ef it hadn’t been for foolishness he’d hev it now.” + </p> + <p> + The artist worked on quietly. “I lost his boat for him, Andy. I know + that as well as you do. You needn’t rub it in.” + </p> + <p> + “What you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Andy. + </p> + <p> + “I’m goin’ to ask you to lend me the money for a new + one.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir!” Andy put his hands in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you my note for it,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + “I do’ want your note,” retorted Andy. “I’d + rather have William’s and his ain’t wuth the paper it’s + writ on.” + </p> + <p> + The artist flushed under his new color. “I don’t know just why + you say that. I shall pay all I owe—in time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may, and then again you mayn’t,” said Andy. + His tone was less crusty. “All I know is, you’ve cost William + a heap o’ money, fust and last. You’ve et a good deal, and you + lost the <i>Jennie</i>, and he had to borrow a hunderd of me to go to New + York with.” Andy spoke with unction. He was relieving his mind. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked up. “I didn’t know that.” He began to + gather up his materials. + </p> + <p> + “What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t + findin’ no fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just + explainin’ why I couldn’t resk any more o’ my money on + him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to + see him.” + </p> + <p> + He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He + looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They’re doin’ + fust-rate,” he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They’ll + be a credit to their raisin’. Set down.” + </p> + <p> + The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his + back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of the + cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a + minute. “You’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he + said soberly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the <i>Andrew Halloran</i>. + “He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “He told me you borrowed of him—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He’s + proud as Punch to hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every + day or two. All I mind about is your frettin’ and takin’ on + so. If you’d jest be easy in your mind, we’d have a reel comf’tabul + time—with the kittens and all.” He replaced one that had + sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort + in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They + can’t find fault with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled + a little. + </p> + <p> + The artist smiled. “Look here, Uncle William, you can’t fool + me any longer. You’re just pining for a boat. Look at that!” + He waved his hand at the water dimpling below. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “And you sit here dawdling over that basket of kittens!” Scorn + and disgust struggled in the artist’s voice. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William laughed out. He stood up. “What is ’t you want + me to do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The artist eyed him miserably. “That’s the worst of it—I + don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll tell ye,” said Uncle William. “We’ll + row down and get the mail, and after that we’ll plan about the boat. + I ain’t quite so daft as I look,” he said half apologetically. + “I’ve been turnin’ it over in my mind whilst I’ve + been doin’ the kittens, and I’ve ’bout decided what to + do. But fust, we’ll get the mail.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <p> + There was a letter for the artist. It contained a check from the + Frenchman. He had bought three of the pictures—the one of Uncle + William’s house and the two of the old Bodet place. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know it?” demanded the artist. He was facing Uncle + William in the boat as they rowed home. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it,” said Uncle William, with a long, + easy pull, “but I reckoned suthin’ ’d be along putty + soon. If it hadn’t come to-day, I was goin’ to make Andy give + us enough to begin on.” + </p> + <p> + “He wouldn’t have done it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ + squirmed and twisted some, but he’d ’a’ done it. He’d + ’a’ had to!” + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out happily. “Well, now you can do as you like. + We’ll have the best boat there is going.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “I knew you’d want to. I’ve been + kind o’ plannin’ for it. We’ll go down to-morrow or next + day and see about it.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked at him curiously. “I don’t believe you care + half as much as I do!” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned the look, smiling broadly. “It’ll seem + putty good to feel my own boards under me again,” he said + cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “But you didn’t care when you didn’t have them,” + said the artist. “You just toted those infernal kittens—” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s chuckle was genial. “Kittens ain’t + everything,” he said mildly. “But I’ve seen the time + when kittens wa’n’t to be despised. You jest set that way a + little mite, Mr. Woodworth, and I’ll beach her even.” + </p> + <p> + “One thing I’m glad of,” said the artist, as the boat + grated along the pebbles. “You can pay Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Andy’ll be glad,” responded Uncle William, “but + it’ll be quite a spell before he has a chance to.” He waved + his arm toward the bay. “He’s off for the day.” + </p> + <p> + The artist scanned the horizon with disappointed face. “He’ll + be back by noon, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “Not afore night. I can tell by the + way he’s movin’. We’ll come up and hev dinner and then + we can plan her out.” + </p> + <p> + They sat on the rocks all the afternoon, looking at the dancing waves and + planning for the new <i>Jennie</i>. Uncle William drew models on the back + of an old envelope and explained figures. The artist followed him with + eager eyes. Now and then his chest expanded and he drew a deep breath of + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Feel’s good, don’t it?” said Uncle William. + “I ust to feel that way when I’d been in debt a good while and + made a big ketch. Seemed ’s if the whole world slid off my + shoulders.” He shook his head. “But it was kind o’ + foolishness.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t you feel that way now?” demanded the artist. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe I would,” said Uncle William, slowly. + “It’s a kind o’ wicked feelin’—when the sun’s + a-shinin’ jest the same, and the water’s movin’ up and + down,—” he motioned toward the harbor,—“and the + boats are comin’ in at night, settlin’ down like birds, and + the lights.” He looked affectionately at the water. “It’s + all there jest the same whether I owe anybody or not. And the rocks don’t + budge much—” He laid his big brown hand on the warm surface + beside him, smoothing it in slow content. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked at him, smiling a little wistfully. “It sounds all + very well to talk about,” he said, “but the world would go to + rack and ruin if everybody felt that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I ust to think so,” said Uncle William, placidly. “I + ust to lie awake nights worryin’ about it. But late years I’ve + give it up. Seems to jog along jest about the same as when I was worryin’—and + <i>I</i> take a heap sight more comfort. Seems kind o’ ridiculous, + don’t it, when the Lord’s made a world as good as this one, + not to enjoy it some?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you feel any responsibility toward society?” + asked the artist, curiously. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head with a slow smile. “I don’t + believe I do. I ust to. Lord, yes! I ust to think about folks that was + hungry till my stummick clean caved in. I ust to eat my dinner like it was + sawdust, for fear I’d get a little comfort out of it, while somebody + somewheres was starvin’—little childern, like enough. That was + al’ays the hardest part of it—little childern. I ust to think + some of foundin’ a’sylum up here on the rocks—sailin’ + round the world and pickin’ up a boat-load and then bringin’ + ’em up here and turnin’ ’em loose on the rocks, givin’ + ’em all they could stuff to eat. And then one night, when I was cal’atin’ + and figgerin’ on it, I saw that I couldn’t get half of ’em + into my boat, nor a quarter, nor a tenth—jest a little corner of + ’em. And then it come over me, all of a sudden, what a big job I’d + tackled, and I jest turned it over to the Lord, then an there. And all the + next day I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ about it out here on + the rocks—how he’d took a thousand year—mebbe ’t + was more; a good long spell, they say—to get the rocks ready for + folks to live on—jest the rocks! And like enough he knew what he was + plannin’ to do, and didn’t expect me to finish it all up for + him in fo’-five years. Since then I’ve been leavin’ it + to him more—takin’ a hand when I could, but payin’ more + attention to livin’. I sort o’ reckon that’s what he + made us for—to live. The’ ’s a good deal o’ fin in + it if you go at it right.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a great idea, Uncle William,” said the artist. + </p> + <p> + “It’s comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. “You + get your livin’ as you go along, and a little suthin’ over. + Seems ’s if some folks didn’t even get a livin’ they’re + so busy doing things.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a while, his blue eyes following the light on the water. + “The’ was a man I sailed with once,—a cur’us sort + o’ chap,—and when he wa’n’t sober he could tell + you interestin’ things. He hadn’t been a sailor al’ays—took + to it ’cause he liked it, he said. And he tol’ me a good deal + about the goings-on of the earth. Like enough ’t wa’n’t + so—some on it—but it was interestin’. He told me ’t + the earth was all red-hot once, and cooled off quicker on the outside—like + a hot pertater, I s’pose. You’ve heard about it?” He + looked inquiringly at the artist. + </p> + <p> + The artist nodded. “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve thought about that a good many times when I’ve + been sailin’. I could see it all, jest the way he put it, the earth + a-whirlin’ and twirlin’, and the fire and flames a-shootin’ + up to the sky, and rocks and stones and stuff a’b’ilin’ + and flyin’—” Uncle William’s eye dwelt lovingly on + the picture. “I’d seem to see it all jest the way he tol’ + it, and then I’d put my hand out over the side of the boat and trail + it along in the water to cool off a little.” Uncle William chuckled. + “Sometimes it seems ’s if you’d come a million miles all + in a minute—rocks all along the shore, good hard rocks ’t you + could set on, and the hill up to the sky with grass on it, green and soft, + and the water all round. It a’most takes your breath away to come + back like that from that red-hot ball he talked about and see it all lyin’ + there, so cool and still, and the sun shinin’ on it. I got to + thinkin’ ’bout it, days when I was sailin’, and + wondering if mebbe the Lord wa’n’t gettin’ <i>folks</i> + ready jest the way he did the rocks—rollin’ ’em over and + havin’ ’em pound each other and claw and fight and cool off, + slow-like, till byme-by they’d be good sweet earth and grass and + little flowers—comf’tabul to live with.” + </p> + <p> + The artist sat up. “Do you mean to say you wouldn’t stop folks + fighting if you could?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William eyed the proposition. “Well I dunno’s I’d + say jest <i>that</i>. I’ve thought about it a good many times. Men + al’ays <i>hev</i> fit and I reckon they <i>will</i>—quite a + spell yet. There’s Russia and Japan now: you couldn’t ’a’ + stopped them fightin’ no more’n two boys that had got at it. + All them Russians and them little Japs—we couldn’t ’a’ + stopped ’em fightin’—the whole of us couldn’t hev + stopped ’em—not unless we’d ’a’ took ’em + by the scruff o’ the neck and thrown ’em down and set on + ’em—one apiece. And I dunno’s that’d be much + better’n fightin’—settin’ on ’em one apiece.” + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William beamed on him. “You see, this is the way I figger it: + Russia and Japan wa’n’t fightin’ so much for anything + they reely wanted to <i>git</i>. It was suthin’ <i>in</i> ’em + that made ’em go for each other, tooth and nail, and pommel so—a + kind o’ pizen bubbling and sizzling inside ’em; we’ve + all got a little of it.” He smiled genially. “It has to work + out slow-like. Some does it by fightin’ and some does it by prayin’; + and I reckon the Lord’s in the fightin’, same as in the prayin’.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked at him curiously. “Some people call that the + devil, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William cleared his throat. He picked up a little stone and balanced + it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. Then he looked up with a slow + smile. “I ain’t so well acquainted with the devil as I ust to + be,” he said. “I ust to know him reel well; ust to think about + him when I was out sailin’—figger how to get ahead of him. But + late years I’d kind o’ forgot—He’s livin’ + still, is he?” + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed quietly. “They say so—some of them.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s smile grew wider and sweeter. “Well, let him + live. Poor old thing! ’T won’t hurt none, and he <i>is</i> a + kind o’ comfort to lay things on when you’ve been, more’n + usual, cussed. That’s the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> over there to the + left.” He pointed to a dusky boat that was coming in slowly. “That’s + his last tack, if he makes it, and I reckon he will. Now, if you’ll + go in and start the chowder, I’ll see if he want’s any help + about makin’ fast.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <p> + Andy eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. He threw the rope to Uncle + William and busied himself with the sail. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William peered down upon him. “Got quite a nice mess, didn’t + ye?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep.” + </p> + <p> + “How’d they run?” + </p> + <p> + “Cod—mostly.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye got <i>some</i> halibut.” + </p> + <p> + “A few.” Andy admitted it grudgingly. His tone implied that + the Creator withheld halibut out of pure spite. The ways of the universe + were a personal grievance to Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a nice mess,” said Uncle William. “Goin’ to + unload?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope—wait for the tide.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye’ll jest about make it,” said Uncle William. He + glanced at the sky. “I’ll come down and help ye clean, like + enough, after supper.” + </p> + <p> + Andy climbed up in silence. His somber face appeared above the edge of the + wharf. Uncle William looked down on it, smiling. “I’ve got + good news for ye, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh?” Andy paused half way. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “You’ll be reel tickled about it. I’m + goin’ to have a new boat—right off.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye be?” Andy’s mouth remained open. It took in the sky + and the bay and Uncle William’s smile. + </p> + <p> + “Right off. I knew ye’d be glad.” + </p> + <p> + The mouth came together. “Where you goin’ to get it?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s got some money.” Uncle William nodded toward the + cliff. + </p> + <p> + Andy looked. “He’s poor as poverty. He’s said so—times + enough.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William smiled. “He’s had luck—quite a run o’ + luck. He’s been sellin’ picters—three-four on ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s picters!” said Andrew, scornfully. He scrambled + on to the wharf with a backward glance at the <i>Andrew Halloran</i>. + “You won’t buy no boat off o’ picters, Willum. A boat + costs three hunderd dollars—a good one.” + </p> + <p> + “I was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said Uncle + William. + </p> + <p> + “You was?” Andy wheeled about. “You wont’ get it + out o’ him!” He jerked a thumb at the cliff. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William chuckled. “Now, ye’ve made a mistake, Andy. He’s + got that much and he’s got more.” The gentle triumph in Uncle + William’s tone diffused itself over the landscape. + </p> + <p> + Andy took it in slowly. “How much?” he asked at last. + </p> + <p> + “Six-seven thousand,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “What!” Andy’s feet scuffed a little. “‘T + ain’t reasonable,” he said feebly. + </p> + <p> + “No, ’t ain’t reasonable.” Uncle William spoke + gently. “I was a good deal s’prised myself, Andy, when I found + how high they come—picters. Ye can’t own a gre’t many of + ’em—not at one time.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t want to,” said Andy, caustically. + </p> + <p> + “No, you wouldn’t take much comfort in ’em,” said + William. “<i>‘T is</i> cur’us ’t anybody should + want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to pay—how + much d’ye s’pose they did pay for it, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, + warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t + say jest that, Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Roof leaks,” said Andrew. + </p> + <p> + “A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the + southeast corner, She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed + at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, + turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, + beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him + two thousand for it,” he said. There was sheer pride in the words. + </p> + <p> + “For that?” Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at + the house and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself + slowly and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “He’s as sensible as you be, + Andy—or me.” + </p> + <p> + Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye. “What’ll + ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. “I don’t + speak that way o’ my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I’d + a heap rather trust ’em and get fooled, than not to trust ’em + and hev ’em all right.” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked guilty. “When’s it comin’?” he said + gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; + “this mornin’. We’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat + all day, off and on. He’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to + make up for the <i>Jennie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. + He dropped a jealous eye to the <i>Andrew Halloran</i> rising slowly on + the tide. + </p> + <p> + “No, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she + was that,” admitted Uncle William. “I’m goin’ to + take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. I’m goin’ + to pay you, too, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. He + turned it slowly. “When you goin’ to pay me, Willum?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” answered William, promptly, “or mebbe next + day. I reckoned we’d all go down and see about the boat together.” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked at him helplessly. “Everything seems kind o’ + turnin’ upside down,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “What + d’ye s’pose it is, Willum—about ’em—picters—that + makes ’em cost so like the devil?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. + “I’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor + the canvas.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheap as dirt,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Must be the way he does ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and + a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle + William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.” + </p> + <p> + Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t + reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth + more’n a picter of it. There’s more <i>to</i> a thing.” + He struck the solid ground of fact with relief. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eye rested on him mildly. “Ye can’t + figger it that way, Andy. I’ve tried it. A shark’s bigger’n + a halibut, but he ain’t wuth much—‘cept for manure.” + </p> + <p> + “Chowder!” The call rang down from the little house, clear and + full. + </p> + <p> + Both men looked up. “<i>He’s</i> a-callin’ ye,” + said Andrew. There was mingled scorn and respect in the tone. + </p> + <p> + “You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we’re + eatin’.” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked down at his clothes. “I’m all dirt.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William surveyed him impartially. “Ye ain’t any dirtier + ’n ye al’ays be.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno’s I be,” admitted Andy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you come right along, and after supper we’ll all turn + to and help you clean.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked up as they entered. “How are you, Andy? The fish + are running great to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Andy grinned feebly. “I’ve heard about it,” he said. He + drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, + glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite + side of the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a + little resentment grazing the edges of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <p> + The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in + the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the + water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with + kindling eye. + </p> + <p> + His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been + trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the + water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl held + his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift + delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over—to wait for. Some + day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip + away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke—he would wait. His + eye wandered to the horizon. + </p> + <p> + A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was + Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed + up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. + “I reckoned I’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He + nodded toward the horizon. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” + He put the word doubtingly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ + over there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I’d + give my eyes to get.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William chuckled a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much + to ye.” His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a + small spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his + eye. “There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if + that’ll help ye any.” + </p> + <p> + The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her + now. She’s a schooner.” He put down the glass. “Do you + mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?” + </p> + <p> + “Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again + for the glass. “I don’t make her out a schooner, though.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s two-masted.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. + “But she’s lighter built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like + enough. You can see her walk—same as if she was a lady—a-bowin’ + and bobbin’.” He laid down the glass, a look of pleasure in + his face. “She’s comin’ right in, whoever she is. She’ll + drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You been + paintin’?” + </p> + <p> + “Trying to.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Bout a thousand dollars’ wuth, I s’pose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not ten cents’ worth.” + </p> + <p> + “Sho, now! Is that so?” He got up and looked down at the + canvas, bending above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened + himself, smiling. “‘Tis kind o’ dobby,” he + admitted. “Mebbe you’ll do better to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. Was there a letter for me?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “Nary letter.—I reckon ’t + ain’t time yet,” he added consolingly. + </p> + <p> + The young man looked gloomily at the water. “She must be ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Busy, more likely,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “It’s been six weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re feelin’ putty well,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + “I shall go down to-morrow,” said the young man. He had begun + to gather up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. + A clear color ran beneath the tan of his face. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William watched him with a little smile. “I dunno’s I’d + go to-morrow. You could go next week if you don’t hear nuthin’.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go to-morrow. I’ve been a fool to wait so long.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s eye twinkled. “You’ve been gettin’ + well,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m well now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’re—Hello, there’s Andy.” He leaned + over the edge of the cliff. “What d’ye make her?” he + called down. + </p> + <p> + Andy squinted at the distance. “Coaster,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “Come up here and take a look at her.” + </p> + <p> + Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. “Got your glass?” He took it + and fixed the moving speck. “‘T ain’t a coaster,” + he muttered. “What you folks been doin’ all the mornin’?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve been for the mail and some things, and Mr. + Woodworth here he’s been paintin’.” + </p> + <p> + Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly at the bay. He + seated himself on a rock. “It’s time for me to go home,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + No one paid any attention to it—Andy least of all. He sat with one + leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily + out to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost + tragic. The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle + William studied the approaching boat. “She’s never been in + these waters afore,” he announced. “She’s comin’ + in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist + worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the glass. He took a long look. + He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with + serene touch—oblivious to the bay. Uncle William looked through the + glass again—a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket + and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in to dinner, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et’s waitin’ + for me.” He got slowly to his feet. “You’ve got another + done, I s’pose?” He glanced enviously at the easel. + </p> + <p> + The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his + hand. + </p> + <p> + Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin crept + into this face, and spread. “You’ve made me look kind o’ + queer, hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles + and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. “It’s + Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It’s Andy! And it’s + the spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming + upon Andrew. + </p> + <p> + Andrew returned the look somberly. “It’s a good likeness, you + think, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn’t be better.” Uncle + William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as + mean as you do—and jest as good, too, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Half an hour, perhaps; while we’ve been sitting here.” + </p> + <p> + Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more’n I be, too, I reckon?” + </p> + <p> + The artist stared at him. + </p> + <p> + “I mean—” Andy was almost apologetic. “I know they + come high—picters. I don’t suppose I could afford to buy it of + ye—” + </p> + <p> + The artist’s face lighted. “Do you want it?” + </p> + <p> + “Harr’et might,”—cautiously,—“if + ’t wa’n’t too high. She’s got an easel for it. She + al’ays cal’ated to have me done, and she’d got as fur as + the easel.” His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. “Willum + says it’s a good likeness.” He spoke with a kind of dubious + pride. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> good.” The young man’s eye rested on it + affectionately. “It’s a ripping good sketch—and you may + have it and welcome.” + </p> + <p> + Andy drew back a step. “You mean—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it to you, yes.” The artist was holding it + out laughingly. “And some day you’ll sit for me again. That’ll + be pay enough.” + </p> + <p> + Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached + them out for the canvas. “It’s kind o’ wet,” he + said. “I’ll have to hold it keerful.” He took it in both + hands, beaming upon it with a kind of somber joy. Carrying it at arm’s-length, + he bore it away over the rocks. The artist watched the stern, angular + figure loom against the sky and dip down over the cliff out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous,” + he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s time for dinner,” responded Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV + </h2> + <p> + Uncle William set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered + about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round + face. + </p> + <p> + The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. “You + look as happy as if you’d had a fortune left you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m considabul contented. I gen’ally am, ain’t + I?” he added quickly. + </p> + <p> + “So-so,” admitted the young man. “You’re + shiftless, that’s what’s the matter with you.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. “I guess I be,” he + said softly. “I guess I be. But I do take a sight o’ comfort.” + </p> + <p> + The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up + in a quart cup. “Dinner ready?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon it is.” Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. + “‘Pears to me there’s suthin’ I’ve forgot. + Oh, pickles!” He said it triumphantly. “If you wouldn’t + mind takin’ that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin’ down cellar?” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” The young man took the plate and disappeared down + the ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked cautiously at the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the + window. He drew the glass from his pocket and pointed it at the harbor. + The boat had come to anchor just off the island. Uncle William fixed her + with his glass. “Uh-huh, jest as I thought,” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + A step sounded on the ladder and he shut the glass, thrusting it into his + pocket and turning a bland, innocent face upon the room. “Does beat + all how good pickles be with fish. Set ’em right there, Mr. + Woodworth. Now we’re ready.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s chair faced the window, and as he ate his eye + dropped, now and then, to the bay below. Once it lighted with a swift + gleam and he craned his neck a little. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked the artist, half turning. + </p> + <p> + “Nuthin’,” said Uncle William, hastily, “nuthin’. + ’T ain’t wuth turnin’ your head for. I’m al’ays + seein’ things. Get up in the night, like enough, and wander round + the island, jest to see ’em. Go all over the island some nights. You + see a good deal that way—fust and last: little critturs runnin’ + round, softlike, and the moon and stars—” Uncle William was + talking against time. His eye had lost interest in the bay. It seemed to + be fixed on the moon and stars. One ear was turned expectantly toward the + door. + </p> + <p> + The artist watched him with an amused smile. He never interrupted one of + Uncle William’s monologues. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve spent a good deal o’ my life,” went on Uncle + William, “lookin’ round at things.” + </p> + <p> + The gravel crunched outside. + </p> + <p> + The artist started. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William turned a little. “Andy, like enough,” he said. + He rose and went leisurely toward the door. + </p> + <p> + The figure of a tall man stood in it, surveying the room. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s smile broke into radiance. It crinkled his eyes and + nose and mouth. “I said ’t was you.” He held out a big + hand, and drew the man into the room, peering behind him. A little look of + disappointment came over his face. “You all alone?” he + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I am at present,” said the man, smiling. “I left a + friend on the beach below. I wasn’t sure how I should find you.” + His courteous glance took in the young man. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William turned quickly. “It’s Mr. Curie,” he said, + “the one that bought your picters. And he’s left somebody—a + friend—down below. Mebbe you wouldn’t mind stepping down and + fetchin’ ’em up.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” The young man rose, holding out a hand. “I’m + glad to meet you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. I’ll bring him + right up.” His step rang quick on the rock outside. + </p> + <p> + The two old men looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William’s face wore its roundest smile. “I wouldn’t + be s’prised if he stayed quite a spell.” He brought a chair + and planted it in front of the stranger. “Set down.” + </p> + <p> + The man sat down, looking around the room. “It is good to be here,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William, with a hand on either knee, surveyed him over his + spectacles. “I saw ’t was you ’fore you landed.” + </p> + <p> + The man’s face fell a little. “We wanted to surprise you—” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve s’prised <i>him</i> all right. He hain’t + no idea what he’s runnin’ to.” He looked toward the + door. “I reckon he’ll stay an hour.” + </p> + <p> + The man crossed one thin leg over another. “That gives me more time,” + he said contentedly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William gazed politely. “Was you wantin’ time?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + The man smiled. “I wanted to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to see <i>me</i>?” Uncle William’s face held + pleasure, but not very much curiosity. + </p> + <p> + The man nodded. “I came on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “You did? I thought you come to bring her?” His thumb + indicated the beach. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to see you, and she wanted to come, so here we are.” + </p> + <p> + “Here you be,” assented Uncle William. “And I’m + glad to see ye. He was gettin’ middlin’ hard to hold.” + </p> + <p> + The other man studied his face. “How much will you take for your + place?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked up. He shook his head slowly. “I won’t + take nuthin’.” + </p> + <p> + The man smiled. “I’ll give you five thousand for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will?” Uncle William’s glance was mild. A smile + crept into it. “I wish ’t Andy could hear you say that,” + he said; “but I can’t sell.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Where’d I live?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared to ponder a minute. “You could keep enough to + live on,” he said at last. “I’d rather have you, in + fact.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give <i>you</i> enough to live on,” said Uncle + William. “I like your looks. I’d like to have you round.” + </p> + <p> + “That won’t do for me,” said the man. + </p> + <p> + “‘T won’t do for me, either,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + They confronted each other. The stranger’s eyes dropped first. + “I’ll give you ten thousand,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “You will?” Uncle William moistened his lips with his tongue. + “I’ll <i>hev</i> to go tell Andy that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no, I couldn’t take it! Nor twenty thousand; so don’t + you go offerin’ it to me. I <i>should</i> like to tell Andy you was + offerin’ it, though.” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed out. “I was thinking of it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William leaned forward, looking at him. “What are you so set + on buyin’ my place for? It’s a God-forsaken spot—most + folks would call it. Andy does.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it,” said the man. + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman waited a minute. Then he turned a little, looking into Uncle + William’s face. “Did you ever see be before?” he asked + slowly. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William returned the look in full measure. “You ain’t + forgot I saw you in New York—‘long in the spring?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean that. I mean before—years ago.” The + man’s voice was mellow. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William studied the thin face and looked over the thin legs. “No, + I hain’t ever seen ye,” he said. “And yet the’ + ’s suthin’ about ye,”—the man uncrossed his legs,—“suthin’ + that keeps kind o’ pullin’ on me.” Uncle William rubbed + the back of his head thoughtfully. “You ever seen me?” he + demanded. + </p> + <p> + The man’s eyes laughed. “Hundreds of times.” + </p> + <p> + “You hev?” Uncle William sat up. “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Right here.” + </p> + <p> + “In this house?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, around here,” said the man, “on these rocks and + near by. I lived here once. I dote on these rocks—every one.” + He waved a hand at the landscape. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William fixed him with stern eye. “You hain’t ever lived + here,” he said slowly. “You don’t mean to lie.” + His gaze grew kindlier. “You’re jest romancin’.” + He brought it out with unction. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman stared. Then he laughed out. “Well done! I can’t + fight you for that.” He leaned forward. “Who lived this side + of Gunnion’s when you were a boy?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William paused. He looked again at the face with its lifted eyebrows + and pointed beard. He shook his head. A light grew in his face slowly—he + started forward. “Not Bodet?” he said eagerly. “Not + little Benjy Bodet?” He stared again. + </p> + <p> + The man laughed musically. “Right.” He stood up, holding out + his hand. “I thought you would know me.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took it slowly. He studied the thin, keen face. “Benjy + Bodet,” he said. “I’d know you—much as you’ve + changed—I’d know you! Set right down and tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “All?” said the man. He laughed again, looking contentedly + about the room. “It will take some time.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have to stay quite a while,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The man nodded. “I mean to. I’ve wanted to come back ever + since the day we sailed for France.” + </p> + <p> + “You was twelve year old that summer,” said Uncle William. + “Your folks come into property, didn’t they, over there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—on my mother’s side. We took her name. I was sick + for months after we got there—homesick, cooped up in rooms.” + </p> + <p> + “You poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him. Affection + was in his eyes, and memory. “You was al’ays a kind o’ + peaked little thing,” he said reflectively. “You hain’t + changed much—when you come to look. Take off your whiskers and slick + up your hair and fetch down your eyebrows a little—jest about the + same.” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed out. He swung his eyeglasses boyishly from their chain. + “Well, you’re not.” + </p> + <p> + “Me?” Uncle William looked down at his bulk. “More of me—bigger + a little, sort o’, mebbe.” + </p> + <p> + The man nodded. “But just the same underneath.” + </p> + <p> + “Jest the same,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The man drew a deep breath. “I’ve traveled all over the world. + There’s no place like this anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Nowheres,” said Uncle William, fervently. + </p> + <p> + “I shall spend my days here.” + </p> + <p> + “Right here,” assented Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The man looked at him keenly. “Will you sell?” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William shook his head. “I’ll divide.” + </p> + <p> + The man held out his hand. “It’s a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William took it and held it fast. His eyes twinkled. “I <i>must</i> + go and tell Andy,” he said. “He’ll be reel pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “Andy?” The man’s face lighted. “You don’t + mean Andy Halloran? Is he here yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Right on deck; jest slid down the rock here this minute,” + said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The man’s eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my + lobster-pot?” + </p> + <p> + “Borrowed it,” said Uncle William, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He + got his pay.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William nodded. “He al’ays does. Andy’s borrowin’ + lobster-pots now—same Andy—gets his pay every time. He’s + great on gettin’ his pay, Andy is.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other, + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he hain’t, not so to speak,” said Uncle William, + slowly. “There’s mean spots—rocks; you hev to steer + some, but it’s sandy bottom if you know how to make it. I’ve + anchored on him a good many year now and I never knew him to slip anchor. + It may drift a little now and then. Any bottom will drift.” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed out. “So it will.” He took up his hat. “I + must go and look up a place to stay,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step. You don’t + stir a step, Benjy Bodet.” He pointed to the red lounge. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman paused, irresolute. “I’m going to stay some + time, you know.” He glanced about the little room. “I shall be + in the way.” + </p> + <p> + “You set right down,” said Uncle William. + </p> + <p> + The man looked at him with raised brows. “You want me?” + </p> + <p> + “Want you? Why shouldn’t I want you!” roared Uncle + William. “I’ve been waitin’ for you sixty year and odd. + Set down!” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his legs. + </p> + <p> + A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring. + </p> + <p> + He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses to place upon his nose, + surveying it. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don’t that show?” demanded Uncle William. “She + don’t take to strangers—never. Look at her.” She was + kneading her paws in the thin knees, delicately, with treading softness. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman’s eyes lighted. “She’s your cat?” + </p> + <p> + “She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If + she says you’re goin’ to stay, you’re goin’ to. + You won’t leave here, not till you’ve built over there on the + old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the horizon. “I’ll + help ye build,” he exclaimed. “They ain’t nuthin’ + I like better’n potterin’ around and tellin’ folks what + to do. I can’t fish till the <i>Jennie’s</i> done and I’ll + turn to and help. The’ ’s a girl I can get to do the work. She’s + a good cook, and she’ll come down and do for us—be glad to.” + He rubbed his hands, beaming upon his guest. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman stroked the gray fur with slow touch. “I might take + the young man’s place,” he said thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William paused. “Lord! I’d clean forgot—I feel + about twelve year old,” he added apologetically. “But don’t + you worry. This house’ll stretch. We three’ll get along all + right in it.” + </p> + <p> + “And Sergia?” said the man, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William rubbed his head. “Um—I’d forgot <i>her</i>, + too.” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed out. “You don’t need to worry. I’m going + to lend them my yacht for a trip.” + </p> + <p> + “Both on ’em?” asked Uncle William. His puzzled face + gazed at the man. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William stared. Then the light dawned. “Right off?” he + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Right off,” said the man. “And when they come back, the + house will be ready for them.” + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glowed. “They goin’ to live with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well!” He rubbed his great knees thoughtfully with + either hand. “I wouldn’t ever ’a’ thought o’ + that. And the Lord himself couldn’t ’a’ planned anything + better ’n that.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said the man, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Jest the right thing,” went on Uncle William. “And + byme-by there’ll be little toddlers—gettin’ over the + rocks between here and there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And settin’ by the fire, warmin’ their toes and eatin’ + tarts jest the way we used to.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the same,” said the man. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William mused thoughtfully. The light of flitting memories was in + his face. + </p> + <p> + The man on the lounge watched him through the high-perched glasses. + Presently he took off the glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief. + Then he blew his nose. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William looked up. The smile on his face was beautiful and tender + and full of light. “Where be they?” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXV + </h2> + <p> + They were standing by a great rock at the foot of the cliff. The afternoon + had slipped away and the harbor was full of changing light, but the artist’s + back was turned to it. He was looking into two little round mirrors of + light. Perhaps he saw the harbor reflected there. He saw everything else—the + whole round world, swinging in space, and life and death. He bent closer + to them. “Why didn’t you write?” reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle William wouldn’t let me.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle William!” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “He told me not to write. He said you would get well + faster if you had something to bother you.” The demure face was full + of glinting lights. “He seemed to think that is what we are made for—mostly. + He’s an old dear!” she added. + </p> + <p> + “He is!” He had gained possession of the quick-moving hand. + “I shall keep you now that I have you—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “—for that very purpose!” + </p> + <p> + She smiled quietly. “I’ll try to live up to it. You took the + prize, you know.” + </p> + <p> + He caged the other hand. “Bother the prize! There’s only one + thing I want.” + </p> + <p> + Her lip trembled a little. + </p> + <p> + He watched it jealously. He bent and touched the trembling line. The world + was blotted out—sun and bay and wheeling sky. A new world was born—of + two souls and swift desire. The heart of the universe opened to them. When + they drew apart, her eyes were lighted with tears. He wiped them away + slowly, holding the prisoned hands. “We will not wait,” he + whispered. + </p> + <p> + “No,” half breathed. + </p> + <p> + “In a week?” insistently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow?” imperiously. + </p> + <p> + The laughter had come back to her eyes. “To-day!” She freed + her hands. “Come.” + </p> + <p> + He was searching her face. “You mean it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? They will be glad to get rid of us.” She lifted a + laughing gesture to the cliff. + </p> + <p> + “They?” + </p> + <p> + “William and Benjamin.” She said the names with slow pleasure, + smiling at his puzzled face. “It all came out when I told him that I + knew you and that Uncle William lived here. He saw in a flash—everything! + We started next day.” + </p> + <p> + He had put an arm about her, guardingly. “We’ll go hunt up a + priest,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Now?” + </p> + <p> + “At once!” decisively. “Uncle William might think I + needed more discipline.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re looking very well.” She was gazing at him with + fond eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>am</i> well.” He stretched out his arms. “I could + conquer the world.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll sail round it.” She nodded to the boat that was + anchored off the island. “She is ours—for as long as we want + her.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at the boat and raised a glance to the cliff. “And what + will <i>he</i> do?” + </p> + <p> + “M. Curie? He builds for himself a house, for himself—and for + us.” She half chanted the words in sheer delight. + </p> + <p> + “A house—here—for himself—and for us!” His + glance took in the bare, stern grandeur. “It will be very near + heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Very near. Come, let us go.” They climbed the steep path, + with many pauses to look back on the gleaming bay and the boat riding at + anchor—the boat that was to carry them away to the ends of the + earth. + </p> + <p> + “We will go to St. Petersburg,” said Sergia, watching the + shining light. + </p> + <p> + “And Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “And build castles there.” + </p> + <p> + “Castles! And then we will come home at last—” + </p> + <p> + “Home!” He said the word under his breath. They had come close + to the little house. Through the open door they saw the red room,—half + in shadow, half in light,—and in the red room the two old men + looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William saw them first and got to his feet, his big face filled with + welcome. “Come in, my dear.” He took the girl’s face + between his hands, looking down into it with gentle delight. “We’re + glad you’ve come,” he said slowly. “It was jest about + time.” He studied the face. “We want you to feel to home,” + he went on. “‘Most everybody does feel to home, that comes + here.” He bent and kissed the face with rough tenderness. + </p> + <p> + Juno, from her perch, jumped down and rubbed a sidewise welcome along the + gray skirt. + </p> + <p> + The girl stooped to stroke her. When she looked up, her eyes were filled + with tears. She brushed them hastily aside. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William, from his height, looked down on them benignly. “You + needn’t mind those, my dear. Good salt water never hurt anybody yet—on + sea or land. You do it all you want to.” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed out. And the music of her laugh filled the room. The + twilight was lighted with it. Down below the tide came in slowly, lapping + the stones. Across the harbor a single star shone out. + </p> + <p> + Uncle William glanced across to it. “Time to light up,” he + said. He took down the lantern from its place and lighted it with clumsy, + careful fingers, setting it in the window. Then he surveyed the little + room and his guests, a look of affection in his big face. “Must be + ’most time for supper,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE WILLIAM *** + +***** This file should be named 4634-h.htm or 4634-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/3/4634/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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